Don't
by SamIsTheHotterPsychic
Summary: Dean has his own version of that saying. It goes: If you love something, set it free. If it doesn't come back, you haul its sorry butt back whether it wants to come or not. My version of the season one finale and beyond. Chapter 69 now up. R&R!
1. Devil's Trap

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sam and Dean do you think I'd be writing right now?**

**Note: Please remember that this takes the place of the season finale.**

The thought that ran through Sam's head at that moment was: _I can't do this._

Sam stood over his own father, aiming a gun at his head. Now, normally on any given day he had never really been his father's favorite son, nor had John been Sam's ideal father. He had pretty much ruined the Atticus Fitch routine when he had decided to make the family business hunting ghosts. But never had Sam ever considered murder an option to deal with his family issues.

No, this was not John Winchester. And Sam could not let this demon taking advantage of his father's body see his weakness, could not let him know that Sam would never be able to pull the trigger.

His father---- no, not his father, he had to remember that----- laid on the ground, ailing from the gunshot wound on his leg. Dean had done that after 'John' had thrown Sam against a wall. Dean also was unwilling to shoot their father, but it had always been crossing a line when someone tried to kill his brother.

Dean himself was not faring much better. Currently he lay on the floor, holding his shoulder from when 'John' had thrown a knife at him.

How the shot to the leg had affected John, Sam didn't know. When Meg had fallen seven stories she returned without a scratch. Being possessed had granted her almost immortality. The most logical explanation was that whatever was controlling John must not have granted John that particular attribute. It didn't care about whether or not John was injured, as long as he took Sam and Dean down with it.

Dean himself didn't know what to do. He certainly didn't support the idea of killing John. To kill whatever was in him would kill their father in the process. Dean couldn't lose his father. But he also knew that he liked to live, and whatever this was, the asshole wasn't giving up.

The entire past two days had been a living hell. Meg's exorcism had gone fine in the beginning. They had managed to get the demon out of Meg's body. Aside from seeming mildly traumatized, she seemed fine and they had left her with Bobby. They headed off to the place she had specified their father was being held.

John was not, as they had originally believed, dead. Realizing that John needed immediate medical attention, they had wasted no time getting him to the car. As Dean loaded him in, something hit Sam. Hard.

Dean immediately cursed and ran to his brother's aid. This guy was new, but just by guessing they assumed he was with Meg.

Dean ended up having to use one of the precious Colt bullets. Nothing else was working on him, and hesitating any further would have been dangerous for Sam's health.

Heading back to the car, Sam cried out for Dean. John was gone, vanished in the time they had spent on the other demon who had been a mere distraction. They had hit a dead end again.

Heading back to Bobby's house, they were met with a blockade. Parking the car on the curb, they climbed out just as a fire truck drove by, emergency lights blaring loudly.

Both simultaneously felt their stomachs climb into their throats. This could not be happening.

Getting a closer view, they were met with an almost-extinguished building.

Dean walked up to get a closer view and overheard a bit of conversation. He picked up on a police officer saying "no one reported as being in the house at the time. We didn't find anybody."

"That bitch! She was lying the entire time!" Turning around he saw Sam, who had gotten back into the car, sitting with head in his hands, his forehead scrunched, face pale as he slowly rocked back and forth as if to ease some pain he was ailing from.

"Sam!" Dean opened the door. "Sam, this was not our fault. There was nothing we could have done to stop this." Sam didn't look up.

"Sam!" Dean repeated, shaking his unresponsive brother. Sam remained tensed, his eyes looking surprisingly blank. It was then that Dean realized. Sam was having another vision.

"Come on, Sam. Snap out of it!" Sam didn't so much as blink.

About thirty seconds later, Sam took a great gasp of air. Still looking pale, he got out of the passenger seat shakily without a word.

"Dean. Keys."

"What?"

"I know where to find Meg and dad."

* * *

"So tell me this again." Dean said in the car. "Meg called upon the demon herself?"

"I don't know the exact details, but somehow she wanted power. She felt her life had no meaning or something." Sam looked like he either had a major headache (which was normal after his visions) or he had something else on his mind. "I think I might have read her mind. That's sort of the only way to explain it."

It was the strangest sensation Sam had ever experienced. His own thoughts hadn't even been his own, voices speaking to him in commanding tones. He could still see what was coming in the future, but it hadn't felt quite so straghtforward. Sam had the vision while still inside Meg's mind. And Sam knew that Meg could tell. It was as if she was guiding him through the vision, showing him what would come.

"Did you see anything else in this vision?" Dean asked, trying to be casual about it. He knew there was something else. He couldn't explain it but it was some sort of brother thing. It might also have something to do with the fact that Sam was a lousy liar.

"No." Dean wasn't so slow as to not pick up on the bit of hesitation before he replied. Dean tried really hard to not push it, but Sam gave in first.

"Look, Dean. If something happens, I want you to know---" Sam started. He couldn't tell Dean outright.

"Oh my god, Sam! I knew it! Didn't we already have this conversation last night? Nothing's going to happen, alright? Not while I'm there! And as for me? You also had a vision that Max shot me, remember? I had my trusty psychic geekboy with me and I'm here right now, aren't I?"

"But Dean---"

"I don't want to hear it, Sam," Dean insisted, leaving no room for arguement.

Sam dropped it. Sam knew Dean couldn't help him with this one. It wasn't something anyone could help. It was Sam's decision and he knew what he was going to have to do.

* * *

"Do you think you can do it? Can you shoot your own father?" the thing inhabiting John's body said, mocking Sam's thoughts. Sam was reminded painfully of another situation very similar to this one. Except in that case all he could think about was pure hatred. Pure, all-consuming hatred. Under the influence of an insane asylum doctor, it was easy to pull the trigger. Not that he didn't try to fight it. He did. It was just too much.

"Am I interrupting anything?" said a voice from the doorway. Meg stood in the doorway, though Sam didn't take his eyes off of 'John.'

"Great, the bitch is back," said Dean, still on the floor, propping himself up on his good arm.

Ignoring him, Meg strode toward Sam. "Oh, you can take the gun off him. That was mainly for Dean anyway, we couldn't have him interfering. And for amusement. We didn't want to hurt you, though, Sammy. You're too important." She let the words hang in the air, lettng them sink in. Sam's only reaction that showed any emotion at all was to flinch when Meg had used the name 'Sammy'.

"You put up a better fight than I thought you'd be capable of," she continued in a voice like poisoned-honey, letting the sarcasm drip off her words. "I never guessed you'd be able to shoot your own father, even if it was in the leg. He's served his purpose; he doesn't need to be part of this conversation." John started to lose consciousness as the creature possessing him slowly released its hold.

"What do you mean, you didn't want to hurt him?" Dean asked from the corner. He was concerned that Sam didn't look too shocked.

"I think you know what I mean, Sam." She said. Sam had lowered the gun, though he seemed perfectly willing to use it if needed. He still didn't look the least bit shocked.

"Sam, you son-of-a-bitch! You saw this in your vision, didn't you?" Dean yelled.

"You didn't want to hear it," Sam said, the dead tone of his voice only making the bile rise even firther in Dean's throat.

"Oh, so you didn't know? Oh, this is going to be fun!"

"Meg, just get it on with," Sam said quietly.

"Alright. I only learned recently that as of now, my master's main priority is you, Sam. He believes you could be a great asset to us after a bit of 'persuasion'. So I'm here to offer you his deal." Sam looked on with no visible emotion playing on his face.

"Now, I would prefer just to take you by force, but we can't take the risk of harming you. Dean here and your dear father are a different matter. Now here's the deal. You love your brother, right?"

Sam nodded without hesitation.

"And you know that we will never stop hunting you or them no matter what. We will never give up until they die _slowly_ and _painfully_. Unless you take our offer. You cooperate and come with us."

"No!" Dean said forcefully. Both Sam and Meg ignored him. Sam had turned to face Meg and they were both staring hard at each other.

"If you do, we will let both your brother and father go free. They can go off and live their own lives. They can continue to hunt petty little spooks if they want. Dean can go off and get married or, _god forbid_, have children. They can live normal lives. Except without you."

"Sam, don't listen to this bitch! We can do this together. You don't have to do this!" He couldn't believe this was happening. His baby brother was considering sacrificing himself for Dean. This was not how things were supposed to happen. Sam didn't even look him in the eyes when he responded.

"I tried to tell you, Dean. This is my decision to make. You told me mom and Jess weren't coming back. I couldn't save them. It was too late. It's not too late now, Dean. You said revenge wasn't worth dying for. You are."

"How touching. So is that a yes, Sam?"

"Do I get any say in this," Dean added.

"No," Meg responded simply. "I need an answer, Sam. Otherwise..." She pulled her gun out and aimed it directly at Dean.

"No!" Dean yelled. "Sam, listen to me, dammit! You know it's no good! I'm not going to abandon you." Dean was desperate. He had meant it, what he had said the previous night. He had lost too many people already. He couldn't lose Sam, too. Sam still couldn't meet his eyes. Sam knew it was true, that Dean would never give up on him.

"That's a yes," he said, his voice pained, the emotion finally breaking through the surface. "Dean, please." He looked up into Dean's eyes. Sam had decided a long time ago that he was going to follow through on his vision. He tried to convey through his eyes what he had never been able to say because it had felt too awkward or Dean had made a smartass comment. Foremost in those communications, he was saying 'I love you. Please, just accept why I'm doing this.'

"Dean, I'm so sorry. But please, don't come after me."

"It's time to go now, Sam," Meg said. "All this emotional shit is really starting to make me nauseous."

In response Sam simply dropped the gun to the floor. The sound reminded Dean of a judge returning a sentence of death. Dean still had the Colt, but the shock seemed to have blocked his common sense.

As Meg roughly shoved Sam through the door, Sam didn't fight. It was at that point where Dean finally found his voice.

"Sammy….." The voice he heard came out as a whisper. He half expected---he hoped---- that Sam would turn around and correct him. He wanted Sam to turn around and tell him, in his normal annoyed voice, "It's _Sam._" But he didn't.

He turned his head slightly and said "I love you too, Dean."

And then he was gone, and the room immediately seemed more empty, more quiet, more cold.

There were about thirty seconds where Dean couldn't move. He kept thinking _Sam is gone. Sam is gone. _Then, as his head started to clear, his thoughts moved to, '_Meg has my brother. That bitch has my baby brother.'_

Dean had reached a decision. Sam had asked him not to go looking for him. Hell if Dean was going to listen to that. They couldn't have gotten far yet.

Reassuring himself that John was stable and that Meg and co. no longer needed him, he staggered out to the Impala. He was going to find Sammy.

His fingers fumbling a bit, it took him awhile to get the key in the ignition.

_Dammit, Dean. You're never going to get anywhere like that._

As he started the car, his head felt like it was going to split open. He'd had serious head injuries before, but he'd always been able to see this part coming before. Despair started to take over before he heard that voice, seeming to resonate in his own head.

"_DEAN!" _It said. Sam had only been gone for about ten minutes but it felt like hours to Dean. Even in his head, his heart soared at Sam's voice. Still, he couldn't help thinking _How the hell did he do that? He's never been able to do that before._

"_Dean, listen to me! I warned you not to do this! GET OUT OF THE CAR!"_

He wasn't going to give up on Sam that easily. Not sure how to respond, he simply replied to thin air, "I don't think so, Sam."

"_You don't understand! GET OUT OF THE DAMN CAR NOW, DEAN!"_

That was when he saw it. The huge semi was heading straight for his beloved Impala, and he was still inside. Yanking the door open, he threw himself outside just as he heard a sickening crash. Something hit him hard on the head and before his consciousness dissolved into blackness he saw the headlights turning away from him, taking his baby brother with it.

**Author's Note: By the time anybody reads this, it's probably after the finale. I think I may continue this, but I'm not too sure of the plotline yet. (still working on it) Review please!**


	2. Season Premier

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dean (drool) or Sam (a lot more drool)**

**Author's Note: Alright, so this is officially AU. If you're reading this, just remember, this was my personal version of the season one finale. This is picking up where I would have season two start. (I LOVED the season finale, though)**

_God, my head hurts like a bitch,_ was the first thought that crossed Dean's mind as he painfully returned to consciousness. He was aware of the sticky feel of the blood on his scalp and he knew that something big must have happened to cause this much blood.

It all came flooding back in a rush. The demon. Bobby. John. Meg. The Colt. The semi. His car.

Sam.

He was suddenly aware of the gasping sounds he was making to get air in and the pain each breath caused him.

"Dean?" A familiar voice reached his ears. He could barely feel any of his body, but he could roughly tell he was on a hard surface and someone was cradling his head in their arms, gently, so as not to cause any more damage.

His heart soared for a few seconds. Still delirious, to Dean's ears the voice sounded _too_ familiar. Forcing his airway to open up further, he croaked out "Sam?" Oh, god, that hurt. Sam had saved his life, but he hadn't managed to get very far from the Impala when the damn _semi_ crushed it.

"No, Dean. It's John. Can you open your eyes for me?" Dean mentally winced. His stomach sunk even lower. Of course it wasn't Sam. Sam, who had sacrificed himself for his older brother.

How long had he been out? Sam could be anywhere by now. And he had no means of transportation. But he didn't have time to mourn for his car right now. He needed to get to Sam. _Oh, well look how that turned out last time, Dean._

"Dean, come on, open your eyes." Dean's eyelids felt heavy and he didn't want to open his eyes. His body was telling him that he should let the darkness consume him again. But he knew that opening his eyes was just the first step. Once he got past that he should be fine.

He took a deep breath---which hurt like hell—and pried his eyes open.

Even in the darkness he had to squint. Any light nearby burned into his retinas. He braced himself against the barrage of dizziness and pain, which was to be expected judging by the damage. He couldn't complain, though. He was alive.

As the speed to the spinning came to a stop, his eyes came to focus on his father's face, which held more concern than Dean had seen him with in awhile.

"Take it easy, Dean. You're looking pretty bad." John pushed Dean back down as he tried to sit up suddenly. Dean struggled weakly. He _didn't _have time for this.

"I look worse than I am. Trust me. Let me up. I'm fine." John warily let go of his grip on Dean's shoulder and scooted back. Dean noticed he was still outside; he could still see the building in the background.

Dean shot up a little too fast. With a curse he felt his world spin. He couldn't see anything. Lights were popping before his eyes. He had the sensation of pitching face forward and someone catching him.

"What'd I tell you?" John said. "Take it easy. I come out here, find the car crushed,"--- Dean mentally winced. He hadn't gotten the chance to look at the damage; he didn't think he could handle it right now.—"and you pinned under a door. What the hell happened?"

Dean, still leaning against his father's chest, found himself still gasping for air. He had to hurry and explain. "Semi--- crashed---- Meg----- had to find-----Sam."

"What do you mean? Where is Sam?" John's voice immediately turned grave.

"Meg. Made a deal with him. He told me not to come after him." John stiffened. Dean's vision started to clear and he unsteadily pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

"He thought he could save us. She promised to leave us alone as long as he cooperated." Dean's chest tightened at the memory. John looked blank, staring at the ground.

"I tried to stop him, dad. I did. But he's never listened to me. He made up his mind." Oh great. Here came the tears. He couldn't afford this.

"And now, I think it's too late." He felt dizzy all over again. He quickly lowered his head into his hands. He had always been able to protect Sam. It was in the job description as an older brother.

Dean could handle himself. He didn't need Sam sacrificing himself for him. He had thought it was an unspoken rule that it would _never _come down to that.

But Sam had totally thrown that rulebook out the damn window.

Sam had made up his mind. But so had Dean.

Dean was still half out of it as John helped him inside the dilapidated shack. Dean groaned. He never wanted to come back here ever again. His and Sam's blood was still stained on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. John was digging through his bag, looking for something.

"I'm calling an ambulance." Dean felt a pang of panic.

"No!" He shouted and immediately regretted it. He tried not to wince in front of John. "We're already far enough behind. I'm fine!"

"Dean, they're far gone enough. If they don't want to be found right now, they won't be found, especially with you in your condition."

"I told you, I'm fine! Sam's not, though! He needs me! He needs us! I'm not leaving him!"

"Dean, the only thing you'll accomplish with this is getting yourself killed. Sam didn't make his decision for that!"

"So you're saying we should abandon him?"

"Of course not, Dean! He's my son!"

"Then let's go!"

"We can't help him!"

"Don't you give up on him!"

"_I can't lose both of you, Dean_!"

They both sat in silence. John stared at Dean, waiting for a response. When none came, he turned his back, putting the phone to his ear. With another pang, Dean recognized Sam's phone. Dean's phone had been in the Impala.

Realizing this fight was over, Dean lay down in the most comfortable position possible and closed his eyes. He kept having to open his eyes because his vision was always assaulted by the last look Sam had given him. He had been pleading with Dean not to do what he knew Dean's programming told him to do. As if he could disrupt Dean's very thought process with a look.

It _almost_ worked. But nothing could stop Dean's older brother instincts in full swing. It was burned into his genetic code the second Sam was born and had been increased tenfold 22 years earlier when he had carried his baby brother out of a burning building. Ever since that fateful night Dean had felt it necessary to get Sam out of any other 'burning buildings' as it were, sometimes more literally than others.

He had started to drift off when he heard the ambulance in the distance.

They--- the Demon, Meg, all of them--- had officially declared war. And Dean wasn't going to give up until he had his brother back by his side. These sons-of-bitches were going down.

_I'm coming for you, Sammy._


	3. Waking Up

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sam and Dean…….. sorry, I'm back now. Anyway, no I don't. Dammit!**

**Author's Note: I am adding allusions to the _actual_ season finale. In this story, like in the show, Bobby _did_ give them the book. If you haven't seen the season finale, there aren't many references and you'll understand this story fine.**

_He was in a dark room. He couldn't see anything, just blackness in every direction._

_"Hello?" He called out, but was answered with only an echo._

_"Hello?" He called out again. This time he could have sworn he heard a voice in the distance. He called out again._

_He was sure of it. Someone was calling his name._

_"Dean?" The voice called. It sounded tired and apprehensive._

_Dean _knew _that voice._

_"Sam!" He yelled into the darkness. "Sammy, where are you?"_

_"Dean, don't come any closer!" The voice yelled. It was retreating now. Dean started to run as best he could in that direction._

_"Sam! Don't do this!"_

_"Dean, they'll kill you, too! Please!"_

_Dean kept running._

_"Sam!" he yelled again, hoping to find out Sam's direction. He felt his heart sink as there came no answer. Despair washed over him. He was so close. He kept running._

_"Sammy!" He yelled again._

_"Hello, Dean." He heard a calm voice say. His stomach climbed into his throat._

_"Meg." He spat._

_"Say hello to your big brother, Sammy." She said in a mock-sweet voice._

_"Dean." The tone came out sounding forced. And there was no masking the concern in Sam's voice. It could even have been called fear, whether for himself or his brother was unknown._

_"Sammy here has been cooperating better than we thought he would so far. He must _really _love you, Dean. Everything has gone perfectly except for one thing. We've been a little concerned about your intentions._

_"Now, I believe we made an agreement. You get your life, we get your brother. But you don't seem to want to accept that." Dean didn't respond._

_"Now, Sam made an agreement. An agreement that included you. He promised that you would stay out of this. And every time that you or your father ignore his request, he's breaking his promise. We don't take well to people who break promises. It seems to me, Dean, that you've declared war against us. And do you know what happens in war, Dean?" she asked. Dean's heart was permanently lodged in his throat at this point. He knew what was coming and he didn't know how to stop it._

_The worst sound Dean had ever heard resonated in the room, in Dean's very head. He never wanted to hear that sound. Never. He had spent his entire life trying to prevent that sound._

_Over the sounds of the screaming, he heard Meg's voice._

_"The closer you get, the more he will suffer. When you leave us alone, his suffering will end. We'll take good care of him."_

_The screaming continued. Dean couldn't take it._

_"STOP!" He couldn't stand it._

_"It ends when you make up your mind, Dean." As everything melted away, the only thing that was left was the sound of his baby brother screaming._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

He woke, shaking and sweating, with the sounds still burned in his mind. This time when Dean woke up, it only took a few seconds for everything to come back to him. This time also, unlike the last time, he was aware that he was lying in a bed somewhere. A rather uncomfortable bed, actually. That was what tipped him off that he was in a hospital.

He opened his eyes to examine his surroundings. Yep, he was definitely in a hospital. Thankfully he had a room to himself. If he had to room with some annoying, chatty, I-want-to-be-your-best-friend type he just might have lost it.

It was a standard, pastel-colored room: plain-looking, bland, empty. It was hard to tell what time of day it was because of the rain coming down in sheets outside the windows. He was alone, thank god. He probably looked like hell right now. His hands refused to stop shaking.

His body felt groggy but his mind was wide awake. He should have expected nightmares. But technically he didn't have _time_ to expect anything. The last thing he remembered was a woman in official EMT garb checking for injuries. He must have had some sort of big head injury because that seemed to be the focus of the inspection. It must have been around then that he passed out.

Had he been dreaming? That was a stupid question. Of course he had. He didn't get visions. That was _Sam's_ thing.

Dean didn't usually get nightmares, period. In his occupation, he was really always too tired to dream at all. He had heard that 'traumatic events' can cause nightmares. He guessed that having your brother kidnapped by a demon could count as traumatic. It was merely his fears playing out in his mind. Yet he couldn't seem to get the echoing sound of Sam's screams

How long had he been out? Hopefully not longer than a few days. He couldn't have been hurt _that_ badly. Come to think of it, though, he had never found out how badly he had been hurt. John had said something about him being pinned under the car door. He could already tell that, thankfully, he hadn't broken anything. Other than that, he would have to ask someone.

He was just started to wonder where his father was and what he was doing when a nurse entered the room.

"Oh," she said. "You're up. Good. How do you feel?" She had on the classic "I'm here to help you" nurse smile. It had always managed to annoy Dean. He really didn't have time for this.

"Fine. What exactly is wrong with me?"

She had a clipboard in her hand. Consulting it, she said "Well, according to this, you were pretty lucky. You had a severe concussion and blood loss from your head wound. No broken ribs, amazingly, just mildly bruised. You've been out for about two days. Oh, and your father left that for you," she said, pointing to a cardboard box with an envelope on the top resting on the bedside table.

"How soon will I be able to leave?" Dean asked. That's all that he wanted to know at this point.

"I'm guessing that they'll let you go tomorrow if nothing goes wrong, and trust me, I highly doubt anything will." She winked. Dean hated when people did that. He hated the term "trust me." It was against his nature to trust anyone except John and Sam. Even then, sometimes that wasn't even a good idea.

The nurse left, promising she'd be back later to check up on him.

Deciding he had nothing better to do, (daytime television sucked) Dean leaned over the side of the hospital bed and picked up the box and letter. He already knew who it was from.

It wasn't addressed. It occurred to Dean that he didn't know what name he was supposed to use. His fears were reassured in the first line of the letter.

_Jared,_

_I'm out trying to find a lead. Sorry to leave you there but I figured you'd rip my head off if you found out I just sat around at the hospital doing nothing when I could be looking for Sam. I'm also sorry about our fight. I'm not saying you were right. You needed help and we couldn't do anything for him like that. I left with you all the things that they could salvage from the car. On that note, I regret to inform you that the Impala was completely totaled. No chance of recovery. I managed to find a cheap car that we can use for awhile, but I don't think you'll particularly like it._

_I'll do everything I can but be patient. They don't want to be found. If I'm not back by Friday, just find a hotel room and stay tight. If I'm not back by Monday, go to Missouri._

_Your father,_

_Jensen Metternich_

Dean leaned against his pillows. He didn't want to sleep. If he was being truthful, he was afraid of going to sleep. Even if they were just dreams, he had a feeling they weren't going away anytime soon and he didn't particularly like the idea of hearing Sam's pained screams any time soon (or ever for that matter).

He opened the box and peered inside. There wasn't much in it and it mainly looked like random things he never counted as really important.

He dug around a little. He was more than a little shocked at how many of his tapes had survived.

"Oh my god." He muttered to himself. Only eight tapes had survived out of his multitude of precious music.

"How come none of my good stuff survived? No AC/DC! No Metallica!"

Well, at least his CCR cassette had made it. He didn't know if he could have survived without Bad Moon Rising.

Frustrated, he laid the box back on the side table and leaned heavily against his pillows. Most of the things that had survived were Sam's and he didn't want to have to look through it. He didn't want or need further reminder that his brother was gone and he couldn't do anything about it. He comforted himself that John was at least looking but his thoughts always seemed to come back to the nightmare. What if by trying to help Sam he only caused him more suffering?

With nothing else to do and desperate not to think of his brother and the helplessness he felt in this whole situation, he grabbed the television remote and pressed the power button.

"---all your clothes will smell fresh and new!" The fabric softener teddy bear giggled and ran back into the flowery meadow.

_God help me_ he thought.

**Author's Note: If you saw the season finale you'll understand the Bad Moon Rising allusion and if you saw Faith you'll understand the fabric softener teddy thing. (I actually watched a Snuggle fabric softener commercial for this story) Sorry if this seemed a bit like a filler chapter but it needed to be there. I researched last names and discovered the name Metternich, which is a Dutch name. It comes from Metter, basically meaning "middle of the night; born in the middle of the night."**


	4. You Did This

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean, alright! grumbles**

**"**Take it easy, Dean."

"Since when do you care if I take it easy?" Dean retorted. He trudged through the hospital parking lot; the ground was still wet from the rain showers. John trailed along behind him. Dean wanted to put as much space as possible between himself and that hellhouse they called a hospital. He had mostly recovered from the wounds in the two days since he had awoken, (they had kept him in the hospital an extra day for observation, a move that Dean had vehemently opposed) aside from a few tender spots on his scalp.

"Since you look like shit. Damn, Dean, you lie in a bed all day and you still look like you haven't slept at all." That was probably because he hadn't. His nightmares refused to go away and they got worse each time. He couldn't stand to see Sam like that so he had just given up sleeping. It was the easiest route to deal with it.

"I'm fine."

John had shown up the evening before, shaking his head resignedly before Dean could ask the question. Dean expected nothing more. John loved Sam, but these things were Dean's area of expertise. Big brother DNA at work again.

"So where's the car?" Dean was already feeling unsteady. He knew nothing could compare to the Impala, but it didn't help when John had said used the words "cheap" and "I don't think you'll like it," it was a dead giveaway.

"It's right up here, as I remember. You can drive," he said as he tossed the keys to Dean. They turned the corner and Dean froze.

"Dad. You've got to be kidding me. You're shitting with me, right?" He couldn't believe it.

"It was the best I could find in our price range at short notice. It doesn't go very fast and it gets really crappy mileage but it'll last us until we can get another one."

Dean was in too much shock to speak. He finally managed.

"I can't be seen driving that."

"Well, Dean, do you want to wait until you can get your hands on a vintage black Mustang Mach 1 or do you want to get in the damn car and find your brother?"

Dean hesitated for about half a second before opening up the door of the powder blue Volkswagen Beetle and climbing in.

John climbed in just as Dean put the key into the ignition.

"Do you want me to drive, Dean?" John asked exasperatedly.

Dean was torn. He rarely let anyone else drive but he really couldn't be seen driving this. Without a word he yanked the door open and got out. Sulkily he climbed in the passenger's side.

"Well," Dean said as they exited the parking lot, "at least it has a cassette player, because there is no way I'm switching to CDs. But the trunk isn't even in the back! It's under the hood and it's called a bonnet, for god's sake!"

"Dean! Can we get off the subject of the car for now? We've got a sixteen-hour drive for you to bitch during, alright?" Dean shut up.

First Snuggles, now this? Sam would have had a freaking Field Day.

Riding with John was different than riding with Sam. In some ways he preferred riding with Sam. With Sam it felt less like awkward silence and more like the comfortable silence where neither person really wants to talk. There wasn't much to talk about once you'd gone on that many trips with someone. Sam had always been perfectly content to retreat into his own personal bubble and leave Dean to his music.

Dean missed Sam's presence more than anything. He couldn't feel comfortable like this.

First of all, he was not in the Impala. He never would be again.

Second of all, he wasn't driving. As long as this was their car he never would.

Third of all, Sam wasn't with him. There was no telling as to when that would change.

During the past two days he had tried as hard as humanly possible to block out the bad thoughts of what Sam could be going through right now. He didn't want to think of his baby brother suffering. Yet that was inevitable as long as he was with Meg. She just brought that sort of thing everywhere she went. Suffering.

In the darkness he could still hear the screams, haunting him, blaming him. He could have stopped Sam. He could have shot Meg. He could have done _something._ He might have been able to talk Sam out of it if he had just freaking _listened_ to Sam in the car rather than simply answering "I don't want to hear it." He had never considered that he would have to save Sam from his own decisions. He never thought Sam would be that stupid.

Somewhere in his train of thought he must have drifted off. He had barely slept more than an hour at a time since he had woken up two days ago and he couldn't have held it off for much longer.

_He was in a room full of mirrors. Everywhere he looked there were more, reflecting his pale reflection back at him._

_He could see what was coming now._

"_You did this, Dean," said a whispered voice in his ear. He looked around but there was no one._

"_It's true, you know," said a low voice behind him. He turned again to meet his own reflection mirrored back at him, except with a mind of its own. It stared at him with hate in its eyes. "You did this. To your own brother. You claimed you loved him, Dean. And how did you show that? You protected him, did you?"_

"_It was his decision," Dean said quietly, falling to his knees as his chest started to seize up and he felt the blood running down his cheeks. "He had a choice."_

"_Did I?" Dean's head snapped around so fast he felt lightheaded afterward. Sam stood there, hair matted with blood and dirt, face covered with gashes, eyes red-rimmed. He still managed to glare at Dean, his face a mixture of revulsion, betrayal, and loathing. It broke Dean's heart to look at him._

"_Did I have a choice, Dean? Do you think I could have really let her kill you? You're my older brother! You're supposed to _**protect** _me_,_" he spat out._

"_Do you have _any idea_ of what I'm going through, what I've sacrificed for you, Dean?"_

_Dean couldn't find the right words._

_"I thought not. And the thing is, Dean, I tried to tell you. I tried to tell you one last time that I loved you! That I was doing this _for you! _But you didn't want to hear it!" Sam was yelling and with every word Dean felt like a stake was being driven through his heart._

_"I did this so that you could have the life that you always wanted! You said you wanted to be a family again!"_

_"Not without you…" Dean whispered, barely audible. Sam heard him._

_He laughed. Dean had never heard such a threatening sound coming from his baby brother. For his next words, he walked swiftly, eerily--- almost like one of the sprits that they normally hunted---- over to Dean and leaned down to his level, so that he was whispering in Dean's ear._

_"Well, I guess you really fucked that up, didn't you," he hissed. The words stung. Sam backed up._

_"I love you, Sammy." Sam didn't react at his words._

_"Don't _**ever**," _he spat out the word, "call me Sammy again. I hate you, Dean. I want you to remember forever that _**you** did this to me_."_

_"Sam…" he breathed. Sam simply kept glaring daggers at him._

_Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone._

_Dean felt the bleeding stop and the pressure on his chest release. He was alone in the mirror room again. The screaming started again, the sound from his brother that he never wanted to hear again, louder than it had been last time. Dean covered his ears, but that did nothing to block the horrific noise intruding on every pore of his body. Then _he_ could feel the pain and he screamed along with the Sam._

_Somehow, over the noise of his and Sam's screaming, he could hear the voice again._

_"You deserve this. You did this to me, Dean…" The last word echoed in his mind over and over again._

_"Dean…"_

_"Dean…"_

_"_Dean…"

"Dean!"

He was suddenly aware of someone slapping him hard in the face.

"Dean, snap out of it!" He took a great gasp of air, realizing he had been holding his breath. His throat felt raspy and, looking around, he realized that John had pulled over to the side of the road and had been trying to bring Dean around.

"Are you alright?" John asked, looking pale.

Dean was shaking all over. He was cold and he could still remember the pain, though he didn't feel it at all anymore. He was dizzy and nauseous and could still see Sam's face in his head.

"I'm fine, what happened?"

"Well, Dean," John started angrily, "I'm just driving down the highway and I hear you start to mumble something in your sleep. I don't worry. Then I realize you're saying Sam's name over and over again. I still don't worry. I've had some pretty bad nightmares about him, too. It's a natural reaction. Then your breathing starts to get weird and I'm officially concerned. I pull over. Once I do, I try to wake you up. But you won't wake up. Now I'm terrified. The feeling only multiplies by ten when you start to scream. You're thrashing and fighting me and covering your ears. You scream the name Sam and I manage to pull you outside the car. Then all of a sudden you start breathing again and wake up." Dean pushed himself up and blinked.

"What the hell was that, Dean?" John asked, genuinely concerned.

"It was Sam. I was back at the place where we fought Bloody Mary. My eyes started to bleed just like she would make happen. Sam showed up and started to tell me off. He told me it was my fault. That I had no idea what he had gone through, what he had sacrificed for me." His stomach churned and he willed himself not to be sick at the memory of Sam's face and injuries. "He knew what was going to happen. He saw it in a vision before we found you the second time." John visibly reacted to this news. Dean had never told him. "On our way there he tried to tell me. He tried to warn me. He wanted to tell me something."

"He told me…. In my dream… that he wanted me to remember forever what I did to him… and that… that he hated me for what I'd done." He suddenly couldn't breathe. He didn't think he was crying, but he felt like he was definitely going to start panicking soon. The anxiety was just too much.

John looked taken aback now. Neither of his sons had ever had this reaction before, especially Dean. He awkwardly leaned forward and pulled Dean toward him in a hug.

"It was a nightmare. It wasn't real. And it wasn't your fault. We're going to find him. We're going to kill those sons of bitches that did this. We're going to _get Sammy back._ We'll be a family again. It's alright. He didn't mean it. It was just a nightmare." John gently but firmly pushed Dean away from him and froze in shock at what he saw.

Dean had thought maybe he had started crying or something. He could feel some sort of liquid running from the corners of his eyes. But he was wrong.

Clean drips of blood were running from the corners of Dean's eyes. Seeing his father's glance, he reached up to check. He brought his fingers down and his eyes widened, lost in shock.

"A nightmare?'

**Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter.**

**If you are wondering about the cars mentioned, do a google image search on either 'vintage Mustang Mach 1' or 'vintage vw beetle' depending on which you want to check out. I just had so much fun picturing Dean in a powder blue beetle.**

**Please review!**


	5. Unnecessary?

**Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't remind me.**

"What the hell----" John said, face turning even paler.

Dean was still looking down at his fingers, which were still sticky from the blood.

"Does that mean that…" Dean trailed off, stomach churning. Did that somehow mean that it had really happened?

"It couldn't," John replied, shaking his head. "You were in the car when it happened."

"What was it, then? A nightmare? How is _this_--" He showed the blood to John "--a nightmare?"

"I don't know! But it sure as hell couldn't have been real!"

"How do you know I wasn't just seeing a," he struggled for the right words, "a message or something?"

"Sam made a deal that they would leave us alone. They have no reason to touch you yet!"

"And since when does Meg ever keep a promise?" Dean threw back.

"None of them has the ability to do anything like that. Who do you know that can do anything _like _that?"

_Freddy Krueger? h_e wanted to say. He had even opened his mouth to say it when it hit him. He almost didn't want to say it, but it was true.

"Sam," he said quietly.

"Dean, that's out of the question. You know Sam wouldn't do that!"

"I know, but..." His stomach was knotting at the thought.

"And since _when _can Sam do anything _like_ that? I thought he had visions."

"He does. But it's more than that. When I tried to go after him he warned me. He told me somehow, through some sort of mind-thing that he did, that I needed to get out of the car."

"But that doesn't explain _why _he would do something like that."

The words came spilling out of his mouth and he knew somehow they were true. "They're doing something to him. He's getting more powerful. I don't know how I know it, but I do." He flinched as he remembered the screams. He knew that if everything else he dreamed was made up, that was the one thing he knew to be too horrible to be imaginary. He knew when his brother was suffering. "They're hurting him, dad. He's in pain, I can tell. I hear him scream every time I sleep. We have to find him soon or I'm afraid…" He couldn't finish the sentence.

"I know, Dean. I'm scared too, believe me when I say I'm terrified for him. But we need to find out why you're getting these nightmares and why the hell they're actually happening to you."

"So what's our next step?" Dean asked, pushing himself up, almost not making it on him first try. He was trembling, though he tried to hide it and he still had the feeling that he was about to throw up whenever he remembered the dream.

"We get somebody else's opinion. We turn this car---"

"---if you can call it that," Dean mumbled.

"---around and head for Lawrence." A rock settled in the pit of Dean's stomach. "We need Missouri right now. She might be able to help."

* * *

_Great, we're back in Lawrence again, _Dean thought sourly. _No place I'd rather freaking be._

Missouri opened the door after Dean nearly knocked the door down.

"_What _do you want!" She said, opening the door, rubbing her eyes. "It is," she looked behind her at the clock, "5:04 in the morning for goodness' sake!"

That was true. The entire block was still asleep. Dean really didn't care if he woke anyone up. It wasn't really his main priority to make sure everyone got a sound night's sleep when it came to Sam.

"Now what---" She froze, finally looking up.

"John?" She looked up. A smile lit her face. "And Dean!" She pursed her lips, but still had a trace of a smile on her face.

" I just hope all of Dean's banging didn't leave a dent in my door, because if it did…" she trailed off threateningly. She looked a bit disconcerted at the grave looks on both of their faces.

What in god's name are you doing here?" She looked them over. "And where's…"

Her smile instantly faded. "Oh my lord."

"We need your help," John said solemnly.

"Y'all are gonna need to come in."

* * *

"So you've been having these dreams every night?" Missouri asked. They were all sitting at her table, no one eating or drinking. Even after all this time Dean still didn't know if he could trust his stomach. 

"Ever since Sam disappeared and I woke up in the hospital."

Missouri leaned back against her chair. "Well I don't know what to tell you. I kind of missed the last psychic convention, you know?"

"We were just hoping that you might be able to sense something," Dean said lamely. She was their best hope so far.

"Maybe, I just don't know. These things are damn powerful from what I get. And if they're doing something to him, if they're working with him, they don't want to be found. At least, not until they're finished." Dean felt a shudder run through him. He couldn't wait that long.

"Do you think," he started with some hesitation, "that _during _one of these dreams you might be able to sense something?"

"I might," she said, thinking. "I've never intruded on anyone's dreams before. A privacy thing."

"No," John said. When he brought out that voice it meant no bullshit, just no. Dean didn't have time for this.

"Dad, I'm doing this."

"No," he repeated. "You're not. This is a dangerous situation. Look what happened last time!"

"Last time I wasn't prepared. And if it helps find Sam, then I'm up for it."

"John," Missouri said, her voice disapproving, "it's not like we can keep him from sleeping forever."

"At least we won't be taking unnecessary risks!"

"Unnecessary?" Dean snapped, glaring at John. "It's an unnecessary risk to do this to find your own son? I can hear him every fucking time I close my eyes!"

"Dean, language," Missouri chided.

"That's not what I meant---"

"Could've fooled me!" Dean took a deep breath. "I just want this to be over. And I'm willing to take this _unnecessary_ risk to get him back. I don't give a shit if you approve or not!"

"Dean," Missouri warned.

"Any time is fine for me," Dean finished queitly.

"How about you get your stuff out of the car, Dean. You both can stay here tonight. I need to have a little talk with your father here." Dean, looking suspicious and still angry, nodded briskly and trudged out.

* * *

After Dean was gone, Missouri turned back to John. 

"Now what the hell was that?" John looked taken aback. He hadn't expected her to react against his decision.

"I don't think it's safe."

"Then why in god's name do you do what you do with your life? Look where _your_ decisions landed Sam. Look at what it's done to that poor child!" She gestured outside to where Dean roughly unpacked his few belongings, frowning at the trunk in the front. John looked puzzled.

"I want to get Sam back, I do, but he's becoming rash about it," he defended.

"He has a right to be rash about this. For goodness' sake, John, it's his brother. He's your son!"John flinched. "You don't know what he saw in his dream, the things he didn't tell you. He never told you that he believes that Sam really meant those things. The guilt is literally tearing him apart. It gets worse each day he's separated from Sam."

"That doesn't mean he can just put himself up and yell 'here I am' to all the demons out there!"

"He has to find Sam. He'd rather sacrifice himself than have Sam do it for him. It's his decision to make. I'm not saying that I'll definitely be able to sense anything, but if I can, I'll tell him, and he's going to go after Sam."

"What if he gets hurt in his dream?"

"John, this is not Nightmare on Elm Street." John gave her a serious look. "He's going to get hurt no matter what and they won't kill him. I've got a feeling these are more warnings than anything."

Dean opened the door roughly, obviously still agitated, carrying his duffel bag.

"Alright, Dean." Dean immediately turned. "Tonight, then." Without a word, Dean turned and walked up the stairs.

It was going to be a long night.

**Author's Note: Again, I'm sorry if this seemed a bit like a filler chapter but these things needed to be set in place. I promise, more _will _be revealed in the next chapter or two. You may even find out what the hell is going on with these nightmares (you never know :), maybe). Things start toget interestingsoon and we'll definitely be seeing Sam (next few chapters. Dream or not? Wouldn't you like to know). These next few chapters are going to be the hardest for me to plan out, so I might not update for a few days. I know what I want to happen in the next few chapters generally, but I'm confusing myself with the details (I can't remember things long enough to write things down when I come up with an idea somewhere without paper, so I have to come up with them all over again. I _know _I had an idea that I loved and I think I'm starting to remember it). I'm trying my best and I really am having fun writing this story. I'm officially rambling. Most people probably don't read the Author's Notes anyway. I can't even remember what I was going to write next. You see what I mean about not remembering things?**

**Oh, yeah. Review PLEASE! I love to hear your feedback.**


	6. Message

**Disclaimer: La la la la la! I'm not listening!**

It turned out that wasn't the night. No 'message' came, just a normal nightmare. Missouri assured him of that. It pissed Dean off to no end.

"Maybe they caught on to us," John suggested.

"No. They didn't. But there is something wrong, I've been getting them every night and now they just stopped all of a sudden."

"We just have to wait and be patient," John suggested. Dean glared at him. There was no _time _to be patient. Dean still hadn't quite forgiven John for the 'unnecessary risks' argument, though Missouri made sure it wasn't mentioned. John still kept a watchful eye.

Dean tried to stay calm in the few days where nothing happened. It wasn't easy, but he managed to keep a normal façade up in front of present company. Well, in front of John. It was impossible to keep anything from Missouri, but he conveyed in his thoughts the wish to keep this secret from his father. She seemed to heed his request.

By the third day, John barely spotted Dean around the house. He only learned after forty-five minutes after waking up that Dean had gone out. It had become a habit of Dean's to wake up and go out for the entire day, looking for signs of anything popping up that seemed demon-esque. No luck so far.

That third day he reported several places in California with mysterious deaths and other areas with supernatural signs in the New York vicinity.

"It could be either. The problem is that we can't check both, and there have been other signs not even in the United States. Like I read off the computer in the library that in northern Canada there have been some unnatural power outages, fires, some of the signs. But those signs have also occurred in New York and California. I think I'll look into the individual areas more, see if they've managed to get a scientific explanation for these thing," Dean said, looking over the newspapers piled on the table. It was four in the morning and John sipped from a coffee mug as he listened to Dean.

"We'll pick up in the morning. I'm going to get some sleep," Dean said, standing up. John nodded, still flipping trough the pages of the New York Times they had acquired that afternoon.

"See you then," John mumbled.

He could hear Dean trudging up the steps and almost immediately heard Missouri opening the door.

"That boy is getting desperate. I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"We both want Sam back."

"I really don't want to say this, but unless he gets one of those dreams of his, there's not much chance until it's too late."

John remained silent.

"He's going to hurt himself."

"Not while I'm around. And I thought you supported his little crusade."

"I supported him trying to help his brother, not get himself killed. You think that's drastic? You have no idea what he's _willing_ to do. And you had no idea what goes on in your other son's head."

John looked up, surprised.

"You don't know anything about Sam, do you?"

"That's not---"

"He's always been willing to die for his brother. And he always knew he would come to this. He was terrified of his power and what it would do to the people he loves. He'd already lost two people because of it and I'm guessing he made his choice because he couldn't stand losing either of you."

John was about to reply when they heard it.

"SAM!" He heard someone yell from upstairs. He knew what was going on immediately.

* * *

_Dean opened his eyes and he was in the Roosevelt Asylum._

_He sat up and looked around. He was aware vaguely that he was dreaming, but he kept forgetting, succumbing to the false reality of dreaming._

_Almost immediately he heard a voice._

_"Dean?" He turned around and saw Sam. He looked worse than last time. His normally untidy hair stuck out even stranger than usual, dirty and bloody. He wore the same clothes he had the night at the asylum, and they were the only part of him that wasn't bloody. His shoulders slumped and he was shaking and looking tired._

_Dean started to walk towards Sam, wanting for once in his life nothing more than to give his little brother a hug and tell him it was going to be fine._

_Sam took a step back._

_"Dean, don't." His eyes were wild and scared. It was very un-Samlike._

_Dean was taken aback at the change of mood. The first dream he had been like this and the second he had tried to murder him. He didn't know what to expect. Neither was really Sam. He reminded himself that he was dreaming. Somebody was toying with his mind. But if there was any chance that was Sam, he was going t jump at it._

_"Don't do this. I did this for you. I don't want you to get hurt because of me," Sam pleaded, showing very true concern. Dean just then noticed the bit of glow around Sam, like the many supernatural beings they had encountered. His voice also carried like a spirit. Dean stopped that train of thought at the station. _

_"Sam, I'm trying to help you. We'll take them down together."_

_"You'll die trying. Please, Dean, I don't have time to---" he was cut off as he jerked his head down, yelling out, obviously in pain. He pulled his hands up to his forehead, looking like he did when he usually had a vision._

_"Sam!" Dean yelled out as Sam's knees hit the floor. He ran forward and just as his hand reached out to touch Sam's shoulder, Sam was gone._

_Caught off guard by the jerkily smooth movements, Dean was confused when he heard Sam's voice._

_"Why are you doing this to me?" Snapping his head over his shoulder, he saw Sam's face, still the same, but his expression was not as friendly anymore. He looked frustrated, as if he couldn't understand something he had been wondering about for a long time._

_"It gets worse the harder you try to help me. You try to help but all you can do is hurt. Why?"_

_The confused look disappeared as Sam started yelling out again, falling to his knees for the second time._

"_Sam!" Dean was officially freaked out now. That was twice Sam had just screamed and then been fine._

_Sam finally stopped yelling, breathing heavily. Dean reached out again to help, but Sam's words stopped him._

_"Get. Away. From Me." Sam snarled._

_Ok, major mood swing. Dean automatically backed up, Sam's voice a natural warning to get the hell away from him. When Sam drew his gaze up, Dean could see that Sam was till struggling through the pain, his bangs hiding his eyes, which seemed to have deepened a shade.._

"_I can't stand it anymore. Just stay away from me. Don't keep hurting me."_

"_Sam, it's not me that's doing this to you, it's them." Dean tried desperately to explain._

"_Is it? How would you know that? You abandoned me. You had the Colt, you could have saved me._

"_And there's something else. Something you never told me. When you came to get me at college, you seemed really surprised I had a girlfriend. I just assumed it was brotherly teasing. I was wrong." Sam looked up at Dean, pure anger in his eyes._

_A rock settled in Dean's stomach. Oh, god. Not this. Not now. He didn't tell Sam for a reason. He didn't think he could handle the guilt normal Sam would dish out, let alone homicidal, overreacting, pissed-off Dream Sam._

_"You _knew _the demon was coming for me. That's why you came and got me. Not that dad _didn't _abandon you. He must have sent you a text message or something to warn you, right? And you, being a good little soldier, came and got me. You made me leave Jess behind to die!_

_"Why, Dean? Why didn't you warn me, or her?" Sam's face was a mixture of anguish and anger._

_"I didn't know it would go after her. I thought---" Dean struggled, knowing that one wrong phrase could send Sam over the edge. At least, Dream Sam. "I thought that it would know where you were and it would come there, and I would be able to take a shot at it."_

_"So you used me? That was the only reason? And after Jess died you just felt like you owed me not to just leave me?" Dean felt the guilt of the words like physical pain._

_"And here I was, thinking that you actually wanted me around." Sam gave Dean an accusatory glare._

_

* * *

_

John ran upstairs at top speed as he heard Dean cry out his youngest son's name.

When he opened the door, he was met with the image of Dean tossing and turning in his bed, tangling the bed sheets, sweating, and mumbling bits of what seemed like conversation so low that John could only pick up a word every once in a while.

Missouri trotted briskly in behind him.

"John, could you wait up a little next time. _I _don't kill spirits for a living."

Missouri's gaze led her over to Dean. She reached out a hand to his forehead and looked to John. His face was conflicted, but he nodded for her to continue.

She closed her eyes with her hand resting on his forehead. She remained silent and still, and strangely enough Dean had stopped his tossing too. John, feeling outside of the situation, also stayed still.

After several moments, Dean started to mumble again, sounding as if he was trying to soothe someone. It sounded very unlike Dean.

* * *

_"Sam, it wasn't like that."_

_"You know what, Dean?" Dean couldn't remember afterward how exactly Sam had managed to get the shotgun in his hands that fast, but he assumed it was some weird dream thing. "You're full of shit. Have you ever really cared about anyone but yourself." He prepared the gun for shooting._

_"Sam, you don't want to kill me." Dean put on his best soothing voice, which didn't work very well. His voice was best used to instill that 'Don't f--- with me' atmosphere, not for convincing your brother not to shoot you because you inadvertently saved him while leaving the love of his life to die._

_Sam smiled, and not in the friendly way, either. "No, but trust me, it'll hurt like a bitch."_

_'Oh, great, this is going to really freaking hurt,' he thought just after he heard the shot._

_Sam stared down at Dean with a malicious glint in his eyes. His hair fell forward into his face, casting a shadow on the entire upper half of his face. This coupled with the blood and dirt, plus the spooky atmosphere would probably scare young children._

_A few seconds later Dean felt a sensation originating from the rock salt wounds. The fiery pain had soon spread throughout his entire body and he screamed._

_Sam simply kept glaring._

_"Nice effect, isn't it? Not much fun when you're on that side, is it?" Dean didn't understand what Sam meant by that comment, but honestly he wasn't paying much attention._

_Dean's vision started to blur and he heard his own screams though he could barely feel the pain anymore._

_

* * *

_

Missouri withdrew her hand as if it had been burnt. Her eyes, when she glanced at John, were wild and concerned.

Within three seconds Dean was shoved roughly back onto the bed as blood began to appear, seeping though his blue and white plaid shirt.

"Hold him down!" Missouri warned. She ran out of the room. "I'm getting some bandages and rags, try to wake him up."

John obeyed without question, placing his hands on Dean's shoulders. He managed to hold Dean down as he thrashed, but soon after Dean started to scream and thrash harder than ever.

"Dean! Dean, wake up!" He yelled, shaking Dean as hard as he dared without hurting him.

* * *

_"Don't come after me, Dean. I promise, they'll do a lot worse to you than this."_

_Dean tried to respond, but his lips didn't seem to be able to work. If he had, he would have said "Worse than having them take you away from me?" It was very chick flick, but he just didn't care anymore._

_Dean, through the haze in his mind and the terrifying numbness, could still notice the things wrong with his brother. Sam seemed to be in pain too, though he was bracing himself and holding it back. His hands were shaking and his face was drained; he didn't even look like he was breathing. Seconds later, he noticed Sam's body was becoming translucent. As he was almost invisible, Dean saw him gasp for air and for a second he thought he saw shock on his brother's face._

_He felt one last surge of pain before it was gone immediately. He weakly lifted his head._

_"Sammy," was the only thing he could get out with the limited breath._

_Dean couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw recognition on his brother's face before he was gone._

_He let his head drop down to the ground again, too exhausted to feel anything, to even think._

_

* * *

_

John tried vainly to stop Dean's thrashing. He knew he had to wake Dean up or it would be too late. He also knew if Dean made it through this he would be getting a whole bunch of "I-told-you-so's". He was never doing this again.

It was exhausting but left un-helped Dean would hurt himself. Slowly, he heard Dean's screams start to diminish, but he thrashed as hard as ever.

"Dean, come on. Wake up!" It was useless, Dean couldn't hear him. But about a minute later, Dean's thrashing diminished into an uncomfortable squirming movement, and he struggled to catch his breath.

John almost didn't hear it at first, but when he listened he could hear very clearly the word "Sammy." John almost thought he saw a tear, but didn't check too hard.

Slowly, Dean relaxed, his breathing returned to normal, and John was finally able to take his hands off Dean's shoulders. It was safe now; Dean was sleeping peacefully now.

Missouri came back moments later with medical supplies and began to dress Dean's wounds. John was so relieved all he could do was sit in the chair beside Dean's bed and watch him sleep.

Soon, Missouri was done and they both retired to the kitchen.

With all the excitement, John had almost forgotten to ask.

"Did you get anything?"

Missouri simply nodded without a word.

* * *

"Oh my god," John muttered. He dropped his head into his hands. Missouri looked at him with pity.

"How much longer?" John asked, not looking up.

"I don't know," Missouri answered simply.

"I should tell Dean." John got up, dreading how Dean would react.

"He has a right to know. We can't deny him that."

"I'm just afraid he'll go off and do something really stupid."

"Just tell him, John." John took a deep breath and headed upstairs, head still spinning.

* * *

Dean woke up more than a little disoriented.

_Whoa, what the hell just happened? _He thought.

The memories came rushing back.

_Oh, right. Duh._

"Hey, Dean. Good to see you up." Dean looked to the doorway and there was his father. He was smiling, though it looked fake.

"Well, did she get anything?"

John nodded. Apparently this was the question John had hoped he could put off until later. He nodded.

"Well?" Dean was suspicious.

"Well," John started, taking a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. "We know for sure now that Sam did send those signals."

Dean was immediately confused. He blurted out he first thing that came into his mind.

"Why?" Why would Sam do that?

"Dean, he needs our help. Badly. And soon."

Dean's confused look froze in place.

"I kind of figured that. You're just figuring that out?"

"You don't understand, Dean," John started.

"He's fading," came Missouri's voice from the doorway.

"And what does that mean? In plain English, please."

"Simply, Dean," John started, and the next words he seemed to have to force himself to say. "He's dying, and he doesn't have much time left."

Dean couldn't breathe.

**Author's Note: Next chapter will be a bit shorter. I could have stopped about ¾ of the way through this chapter, but I think it's better that I stop it here. Ok, we will be seeing Sam (the real one) within the next three chapters. The question is, how will we be meeting him? Please review! Thank you! I think this story is the only thing that will keep me sane into the summer. Hopefully I won't run out of ideas so I can keep writing to get my Supernatural fix.**


	7. How Long?

**Disclaimer: Ugh, please, no more.**

Dean felt his world come crashing down around him at the sound of those words.

_Sam is dying. Not much time. Fading._

He was shaking. The world was spinning. He couldn't think. His entire thought process revolved around those three fateful words.

_Sam is dying._

No. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't.

"I thought," he managed, though it sounded choked, strained, "that they said they wouldn't kill him. That he was 'too important.' They needed him for something." Only in this situation would that be a good thing.

"He's," John cleared his throat. "Well, Missouri says he's not dying in the conventional sense of the word."

"Are there many other ways?"

"They're not just killing him for just any reason." Missouri sat down on the side of Dean's bed. "They're using him. They need something from him, and to get that they're putting him through some sort of process that's slowly," she paused, testing for Dean's reaction, "and painfully killing him. I could feel him, and he's really slipping.

"Did Sam ever say what happened that time he used his powers?" She didn't even bother waiting for a response, simply picking it out of Dean's thoughts. "Whatever he's going through, it's giving him the same ability, the same, 'freak adrenaline rush,' I believe he called it, as he got last time."

Dean felt a nasty taste in his mouth. He wanted to wake up, to find out that this was another freak dream, but he knew somehow that it wasn't.

"Why did he try to kill me, then? Why would Sam send me a message asking for help where he tries to kill me?"

"I can only give my best guess on this one." Missouri looked thoughtful. "But it seems logical that he sends these dreams to you when they're in mid-process, when he is in need the most." Dean felt a shudder that he tried to repress run down his spine. "I think whatever they're doing to him is changing him, twisting him. I hear that he seemed to be changing throughout the dream, becoming more--- hostile." Dean nodded, trying to hold down the bile rising in his throat.

"You say that it's painful?" John seemed to want to object to the turn this conversation had taken. Missouri nodded hesitantly.

"That would explain the screams I've been hearing."

John nodded, pale faced.

"How long does he have?"

"I was just answering this question for your father, here. I don't know. Average guess, to be safe I'd say two days."

Dean stood there as the waves of shock rolled over him. John looked as if he'd been slapped. Neither of them had expected that and they couldn't speak for a few moments.

"Where?" Dean heard John choke out.

"I don't know an exact location. He's in New York somewhere, though."

* * *

John was packing his bags at top speed. They all knew if they were going to get there and find Sam alive, they had to leave immediately.

Dean was moving around at top speed downstairs, John could hear it from up where he was. He finished packing the duffel bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder. There was an upside to not having many possessions.

Dean caught up with him at the bottom of the stairs, holding the cordless phone, talking while pacing manically.

"Yes, that's fine. As soon as possible. Any seats are fine." John stood by in confusion.

"John." He turned around and there was Missouri. "Now, I won't be able to come with you, but I know someone there that can help you the rest of the way. And don't worry. I'll take care of the Colt. It'll be there when you get in."

"No, we're taking the Colt with us."

"You won't be able to," Missouri countered.

"It's against policy to bring any type of firearm." Dean was off the phone and looking at a map while pulling his own bag over his shoulder. "Don't worry, it'll be there by the time we get in."

"Dean, what the hell are you talking about? It'll be perfectly safe in the car."

"We won't make it in time in the car. Even if we did make it in two days, that wouldn't give us enough extra time to find him. We'll have to take care of getting guns, but that's easily taken care of, if you know what I mean." Dean smiled from behind the map.

"We're not going in the car, dad. I was just on the phone and the nearest airport has a plane leaving for Syracuse in three hours. Missouri's friend will meet us there and we go from there, I figure."

"Wait, you're flying?" John was speechless.

"So are you. Is there something wrong?" Dean looked up briefly, eyebrows raised.

"No. None at all. You sure you can handle this?"

"Don't worry about it, dad."

**Author's Note: Ok, so I _promise _next chapter will be longer. I promise! I just had to stop it there or next chapter would be unnaturally long. Things start to get interesting soon, trust me.**


	8. I'm Fine

**Disclaimer: Shut up! They're mine! All mine! (takes medication) All right, so I don't! Jeez!**

"Are you going to be alright, Dean?"

"God, just stop asking already! I'm fine, ok?" John held his hands up in a surrender sign. Dean had become more agitated the closer they got to the gate. He was _trying _to hide it at the least, and John knew he wouldn't do something like this for anyone but Sam.

They wound their way through the security line, which was thankfully not as long as it could have been in mid-afternoon rather than six in the morning. Missouri had driven them there. They couldn't leave the car in long-term parking since they wouldn't be back any time soon, and Dean adamantly refused to drive a car that he had recently discovered to have a license plate reading HOT MAMA.

"You both've got to be careful," Missouri lectured, driving through the parking lot. "There're more than one of them, but we're too far away to get too many details. Issie will meet you at the airport. She'll come to you and you'll know it's her. She can help you get the rest of the way." Missouri parked the car and got out.

"Be careful." She said, closing her door.

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean said. "I can't explain how much you've helped us."

"You think you and John are the only ones that want Sam back? I want that boy back with you, Dean. He needs you. And you're gonna bring him back."

The security guard checked their bags. Nothing suspicious was left in them; all they had were clothes, the book Bobby gave them (which, under certain circumstances could be considered suspicious), some of the miscellaneous items from the Impala, and a bottle filled with holy water.

John didn't miss the untrusting look Dean gave the plane out the window, nor did he miss the slight pause and deep breath he took before stepping on the ramp. John prepared himself too. Though he tried to hide it, flying was one of the things that truly scared Dean. And usually the person sitting next to him was brought along for the ride. Dean had always hated flying and always would, but he was willing to overcome that for Sam.

_I hope Sam really frickin' appreciates this! _Dean thought vehemently as he hunted down his seat. He roughly tossed his bag into the overhead compartment and sat down. John deposited his bag as well and seated himself next to Dean.

Already nervous, Dean quietly tapped the hand rests of his seat.

_Oh great _John thought _the plane hasn't even taken off and he's already started the tapping. _It was a trademark of Dean's to fidget when nervous or upset. More specifically, tapping his fingers.

"I remember the first time I brought you on a plane." Dean glanced over, already uninterested in the conversation and the pathetic attempt to take his mind off of it. He humored John, though, by _looking _like he was paying attention. "Sam must be able to remember it too." John realized that mentioning that bit wasn't a good way to calm down Dean by the acceleration of the tapping. "Or maybe not, he slept through the entire thing. You were six and he was two. We were going off to meet Caleb. The entire take-off you screamed your head off your shoulders. That entire experience taught me that with you, driving is the way to go."

Dean rolled his eyes mentally. He didn't need his father's crappy storytelling festival. Dean couldn't decide which was worse: his father's strolls down memory lane or Sam's meditation sessions.

He didn't want to do this. Fly. The only thing that was going to get him through this was Sam. As horrible as it was, thinking about what would happen if they didn't fly there reinforced his belief that this was the right thing to do.

The plane started to roll forward.

_A lot of good you'll do Sam if you die, _the cynical side of his brain said.

_Shut up, _the other side responded.

Dean shook his head. Oh, great, he was going insane now. Un-f---ing believable.

He gripped the sides of his seat as the plane started to take off. He tried hard to focus on the main verse of Highway to Hell. Was the third line "ain't nothin' that I'd rather do" or "hey Satan, payin' my dues"? He had finally decided on the first one by the time the plane was actually flying.

"See? You made it," John encouraged. Dean closed his eyes and wondered if it was wrong to punch his own father. He had certainly considered it more than once for both John and Sam, especially when Sam was being an annoying, overly critical, geeky brat.

That he was now risking his life on a plane for. Okay, so maybe not _risking his life_, but if this plane crashed and Dean died it was _so _Sam's fault.

He could still remember both the dreams he had about Sam where he had blamed Dean for the way his life had turned out. It had taken him awhile to remember what Sam had whispered in Dean's ear as he screamed.

_Dean still writhed on the floor as Sam, unnaturally fast, strode over and crouched beside him._

"_You know what else you did to me when you left Jess to die? I never told you this, but I was going to propose to her after the interview." Through the pain Dean felt the horror creeping into his stomach. _

"_I had it all planned. I even kept the ring afterward. You have no idea how much she meant to me. She was my only chance to have a normal life and you ruined that Dean."_

As they had packed their bags Dean had briefly looked through the box of things that had survived the crash at Sam's stuff. Sure enough, Sam had still kept the ring with him even after Jess' death.

Dean hadn't known what he was doing when he brought Sam away from college. He had simply received the text message from John a day after he had left, saying "_Get Sam out. Demon coming 4 him."_

Of course Dean hadn't hesitated. He had been surprised to meet Jess, but he hadn't suspected that the Demon would go after her. He suspected that it was coming for Sam and it would sense where he was. Then, if the Demon came, Sam would have Dean's protection. Even when he had dropped Sam off back at the dorm, he had just circled around and waited outside, anticipating any type of attempt on his brother's life.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and laid his head back against his seat, trying not to focus on the plane, Sam, Jess, Meg, or anything for that matter.

The plane didn't crash, though there were a few times when Dean could have sworn he sensed something important getting knocked off the plane.

During one bit of bad turbulence, Dean was reminded of another situation.

"Alright, that was what happened to the plane right before it started to crash!" That comment, made a bit too loud, turned a few heads. John elbowed Dean.

"Mommy," a little girl with curly blond hair across the row asked the woman sitting to her right "is that true?"

"No, honey," the woman soothed, "we're going to be fine."

"It's ok, Sarah," a boy with sandy brown hair a little bit older than her to her left soothed. "Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm here."

She hugged him tightly, and Dean smiled, his nervousness subsiding a bit.

"You promise, Danny?" she asked, her voice muffled from his jacket.

"I promise. I'm your big brother. I'll always be here for you, no matter what." He glanced over at Dean, who was still looking their way. Dean realized he was staring and tore his gaze away. The boy couldn't have been more than eight, the girl four or five.

John had also noticed.

"Dean." He looked over to his father. "We'll find him."

Dean glanced over to the brother and sister.

"We will."

Dean got off the plane, still shaky, bag in hand. "Never again, Sam, never again," he muttered to thin air. John trailed behind.

"Missouri said she'll find us," John said as they stood in the terminal.

Almost as if on cue a voice came from behind them.

"Dean. John." They turned around to see her. She couldn't have been older than twenty, barely three inches shorter than Dean, which was saying something as he was six feet tall. She looked as if she could have been from Indian descent from her skin and hair, which reached so far down below her waist it couldn't have been humanly possible. But her eyes were just strange to any person, the deepest shade of blue either of them had ever seen. They were also enough to make anyone think they couldn't be real.

She held her hand out to shake.

"I'm Deena." Dean shook her hand first. "I see Missouri _still _refers to me as Issie. It was my nickname as a kid. In fact, she gave it to me. My name is Ishana and she thought Issie fit me better. She thinks that just because I'm younger she can still treat me like a child." She caught the blank looks on their faces. "And now I'm rambling… Sorry, I'm just nervous about this situation. She said I was the only one she knew that could help you two find your brother. I was surprised she trusted me this much." Dean hoped she didn't talk this much all the time. She was younger than he had expected, too, which sometimes wasn't that bad.

She shot him a glance as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Spare me." Oh, great, another Missouri. They were walking now, heading for the parking lot.

"Can you help us?" John asked.

"I'm pretty sure."

"Because Missouri couldn't sense anything, and---" Dean started.

"She was too far away and we don't have the same abilities." Again, she sensed she was losing them. "We don't have the same," she struggled for the right word, "_powers_, you could say. Just like Sam has his own. Which is the problem in the first place." She didn't elaborate and Dean didn't ask. "Missouri's specialty is sensing thoughts and energies of normal people and demons, the closer the better. I can only sense general feelings but I have a wider range with sensing psychic energies and telling the true nature and intentions of things and people. Right now I can sense that you are of no danger to me." Dean tried to stop from rolling his eyes.

"Have you sensed anything from Sam yet? If you can sense psychic energies shouldn't it be pretty easy to find him? How many psychics can there be in this area?"

"Not many, but we don't even know if he's _in _this area. We know he's in New York somewhere, that's it." She seemed a bit annoyed as they got out of the elevator and stepped into the parking lot. "It's not _that _easy, sorting through everyone in the area. And since I've never met Sam, I've never sensed him and don't know his signature. The only way I can know that is through you."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"You're the one who's been in contact with his psychic consciousness."

"Okay, you're losing me with all this 'psychic energies' talk." Dean was starting to get annoyed. Deena rolled her eyes as she opened the door of her used Honda.

"You have dreams where he contacts you, right?" Dean nodded.

"That's the way Missouri found out he was somewhere here. Now, if I can get that signal from him again I can help you track him from there."

"He's not doing the nightmare thing again."

"Dad---" Dean started, but John cut him off.

"Don't start, Dean. You still have the marks from last time."

"I don't care. I'm not going to let him die just because you can't take the risk!" They each stood on a side of the car, glaring at each other just like the last time they had this argument. Deena was holding the door open, giving them the 'does this happen a lot?' look.

"I don't mean to break up the tension, but I don't need an actual dream for the signal." Both tore their gazes from each other and fixed them upon her.

"What?" Dean asked. "But then why did Missouri---"

"I told you," she replied as she got into the driver's seat and motioned for them to join her "Missouri isn't as sensitive to these things as I am. And we're closer. She had a theory she told me about. She says Sam is probably sending these messages at intervals throughout the day. Your mind is just only open to the actual receiving of them when you're sleeping. If he's sending it right now I should be able to get his signal. We can try in a bit."

"Why not now?" Dean asked. He was getting impatient. Sam had two days, maybe less, maybe more.

"First of all, Dean," she started "we're in a car, and I don't think we'll do much good if we get run over by a semi." Dean visibly flinched at the memory.

"Are you ready?" Deena asked. Dean sat across from her on the floor of her apartment. There was a reason he never sat on the floor; it was uncomfortable as hell. Dean and John were staying at the hotel down the street as Deena's apartment was too small to support anyone. Deena had explained about her parents. They didn't believe about her psychic story; she hadn't even know what it was at the time, just that she could tell some of what people were thinking. She had dropped the whole thing until she turned eighteen when she left home and headed off on her own. She had met Missouri and she had taken her in for a few years before Deena moved out to come to New York.

"Yep, I'm ready." She situated herself cross-legged. "What exactly do I have to do?"

"Well, I can't sense him right now, so we'll just have to wait. But I suppose it might help if you tried to contact him." Dean raised his eyebrows so high they must have slid off his face.

"Whoa, _Sam _is the psychic the family,"

"We need to make it open so that he can contact you. You need to make it clear to his psychic mind that you're listening. Now, since we can't have you sleep, then I'm going to need you to concentrate."

Dean's eyebrows remained high on his face.

"Anything familiar about him. Think about him, about how you're trying to help him." Now Dean rolled his eyes.

"Basically, you want me to _mentally _tell him that it's okay for him to psychically call for help?"

"God, you ask a lot of questions. Yes, though."

"That's easier said than done."

"Shut up and close your eyes." He did so. John had gone out to try to obtain some weapons, anything they could use, so the room was empty and quiet.

"Concentrate on his voice, his face, his personality." Dean was already pissed off at this girl and her yoga session. Still, he did.

"This is going to sound stupid, but talk to him. Tell him you need him to talk to you."

_Sam? Oh, god, I feel like such a dumbass talking to myself. Um, if you _can _hear me, then I need you to, how do I say this, _contact _me. _

_Come on, dude, I rode on a freaking plane to get this far, I'm not turning back now. I know you didn't want me to come after you, but I can't just let you go. I can't just sit here acting like everything's okay when I learned just last night you're dying. You're dying on me Sammy! Because you had to be so goddamn ready to sacrifice yourself. I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to be the one who does this shit for you!_

So now he was officially talking to a person in his head, but for some reason it didn't feel so stupid. It was starting to feel like he was talking less to himself and more to Sam, as psycho as it seemed. There was something he needed to say.

_I'm sorry Sam. If you can hear me, I'm so sorry. For everything. If I hadn't gotten you out of that college, though, you would have died. And I'm sorry, but your life is more important than Jess'. I'm sorry for not letting you finish that time in the car. I'm _not _sorry for calling you Sammy. But I'm the most sorry for letting this happen to you. And I'm going to make this right."_

Okay, so _now_ he felt something.

"Got him." He heard Deena mutter.

**Author's Note: Oh, shit. I really like the name Deena but I just realized the similarity between the names Dean and Deena. Don't worry, though, Deena isn't going to become one of those 'I'm the female main character who kicks everyone's ass and wins the hearts of the Winchesters so they fight for my love.' No offense to people who write those stories, but I don't write that. This chapter was a bit longer than usual. I apologize if the last part seemed rushed or the airplane scene with the two siblings was corny. I know I've been saying this for awhile, but I _promise _Sam will be in one of the next two chapters and, depending on where I split the next couple of chapters, he may even be in the next chapter, you never know. ;)**

Update: Somebody has commented on this. Deena doesn't go by her real name, Ishana. Deena is her middle name and she likes it better. Sorry for not clearing that up earlier.


	9. Shut Up, Dean

**Disclaimer: OK, I don't own Sam, Dean, John, etc. I know, it's shocking!**

"Got him."

Dean felt a rush of hope at those words. Excited, he went to stand up.

"No, don't. Keep your eyes shut and concentrate."

Dean really did try the best he could. He just didn't know what he was doing in the first place that she wanted him to continue. Mainly he just tried to relax, which was hard considering how close they were to finding Sam.

After about five minutes someone entered the room. Dean didn't dare to open his eyes, but Deena hadn't reacted so he took it as safe not to leap for his gun. The footsteps stopped and he heard the squeak of someone, most likely John, sitting in the seat by the window.

Less than a minute after that, he could hear Deena moving rapidly from her seat. He opened his eyes. John was also on his feet.

"We have to leave now," Deena said. Her voice sounded nervous, giving him the impression that every second would count.

"We aren't ready yet," John argued.

"What, you didn't get anything?"

"Yes, I did. Just, are we really prepared for this?"

"Dad, we don't have time for this. We can continue our little chat in the car."

"We don't have the Colt." That thought had just occurred to Dean. It was their only hope in an emergency and if Missouri was going to mail it (which he doubted, based on security) then it would be another day. Another day they couldn't afford to lose.

"You mean this?" Deena held the Colt out to him, having pulled it out of one of her drawers. He just stared, taken aback. John had a similar look plastered across his face. Dean reached out and grabbed it without a word.

"Don't ask."

"Wasn't going to."

* * *

They had just driven into view of the sign reading 'Welcome to Ithaca, the City of Evil'. 

"Ithaca?"

"Yep. The City of Evil, though I think they named it that for a different reason than the purpose the Demon chose." Deena was driving, much to Dean's chagrin.

"Can you turn that music off?" Dean complained.

"No. Driver chooses the music. Shotgun, aka you, aka guy who got his car run over by a semi shuts his cakehole." He wondered if maybe she _could_ read minds and had picked that line out just to piss him off.

"There's only so much Kelly Clarksona guylike me can take."

"Dean," John warned "just shut up."

* * *

"Dammit," Dean muttered, climbing down from the edge of the hotel room's bed and consulting the book Bobby had given them, the Key of Solomon. "Sam was always the one that was good at this freaky symbol shit." 

He tilted his head back to study his handiwork. The protective ring didn't look quite as impressive as when Sam had set it up for Meg, but it still served its purpose. If a demon stepped within the circle it would be stuck there, practically powerless.

He carefully climbed back up and corrected his mistake as he heard John and Deena preparing everything.

Dean cursed one last time before he jumped down again, realizing it wasn't getting any better. He saw John with the Colt in his hand.

"I'll take the Colt," Dean volunteered. John looked up.

"No."

"What do you mean no?" Dean knew he shouldn't have let the damn thing out of his sight.

"I mean I'm taking it, you are not. You're getting irrational." Dean opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off. "Think about it for a minute. You let your anger take over a little too often. If Sam was dead---"

"Don't _ever _say that."

"Wouldn't your point of view be 'I'm taking down as many of these sons-of-bitches as I can'?

"If he's not dead, then you'll do anything to save him. I will too, but logical reasoning tends to come secondary to you. We have to do anything not to use these bullets. They're our only hope. You'll probably shoot any ofthosethingsyou get a chance to and then we'll have none of them left. Look where that would leave us."

"With no Sam."

"With no chance whatsoever of survival."

Dean realized John wasn't going to budge on this issue. Getting revenge on this demon meant too much to him. More, probably, than Sam meant to him.

Well, it was a little harsh for him to think that. But Dean _hated _being put in this position.

"Fine, then. But when it comes down to saving Sam or saving a bullet, _I'll _choose Sam." With that, he stalked out of the room, ignoring John's voice calling his name.

* * *

"Here we are," Deena proclaimed, pulling the car to a stop. "We'll have to walk the rest of the way." She rolled her eyes at the silence in the car and opened the door. 

Neither John nor Dean had broken the vow they had made to themselves that they wouldn't give up their arguments. John hadn't surrendered the Colt and Dean hadn't halted his plans for taking it the second he got the opportunity.

She beckoned them to follow her as she started down a dirt trail leading through the woods.

"You mean they're hiding out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Technically it's not the middle of nowhere. We're just off the main road."

"But come on, how cliché are these people?" Deena rolled her eyes again, though something seemed to be bothering her.

"Are you ok?" Dean asked. He didn't need her having a seizure or anything right now. She nodded in a distracted way.

Dean started to walk in stride with her, John trailing a few steps behind in silence.

"Um," Dean started. There had been something bugging him for awhile. "Can I ask you something?" Again, she nodded, still looking straight at the ground, her thoughts far away. "If you have powers, and Missouri, and Sam, then why did the Demon want Sam and not either of you?"

She turned around and gave him a look like he was missing something important, something obvious. This only confused Dean more.

"Not to sound too B-movie, but it _is _kind of obvious. Just because some of us have abilities doesn't mean we're all equal. You have no idea what he could be capable of, what he _is _capable of. He might not realize it, you might not realize it, but the Demon does. I'm not really important compared to that." Dean hadn't really expected that. Well, something along those lines, maybe, but Sam had only ever had, what, four visions and moved a dresser about a foot. But then again, look at Max. Because of that he had nearly ended up with his brains blown out.

She had sped up her pace and seemed to be walking without thinking now.

"We're getting close, but his signal is--- holy shit!" She looked like she had been physically shoved and stumbled back right into Dean, nearly sending him tumbling over too.

"What the hell was that?" John asked from behind them.

She promptly regained her balance and picked up her brisk pace a bit faster.

"Come on, we don't have much time to lose." Her voice sounded urgent and both Dean and John wasted no time in matching her acute pace and mood.

They turned one last corner and Dean could finally see the building.

"Welcome to the Kent Farm," Dean muttered. It was the full deal, with a house, barn, stables, and field. It was obviously not in use anymore: no equipment, trucks, crops, or people in sight except for a lone beat-up Chevy. There was one flickering light on in the window of the top floor in the main house.

"This is it, all right," Deena said, softly, just in case.

"Do they know we're here?" John asked.

"No," she said matter-of-factly. Neither questioned her.

"Let's go, then."

They quietly crept across the yard, silently praying that the creatures inside were preoccupied with something else at the current time. Once at the door, Deena nodded in confirmation that no one was on the other side, and Dean leaned down to pick the lock, finding thatthedoorwas already open.

"Am I the only one that finds it ominous they left the door open?" John gave him the 'shut up' look.

Looking like he was already regretting it, John held out the Colt to an astonished Dean.

"Well, that's a nice development; I was just going to---"

"You don't use this unless _absolutely necessary_, got it?" Dean nodded and grabbed it from John's outstretched hand, a grin already spreading across his face.

Turning to Deena, he asked "Are you sure you don't want to wait outside? There might be some fighting, and---"

"Shut up," she snapped, pulling out the gun he had given her. Normal guns would work at least well enough to distract the demons.

"You ready for this, Dean?" John asked. In response, Dean grinned, pulled out the Colt, and held it in a ready position. He had been ready for this since the second Sam left his sight.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was a normal house, the only defining feature being its complete emptiness. Deena confirmed their suspicions by nodding up the stairs.

Being careful of the creaky floorboards Dean led the way to the foot of the stairs, where he forced his footsteps to become even softer. He began to hear voices carrying from up the stairs as he reached the halfway point. There must have been at least three of them. First he heard the female voice, the one he would never forget: Meg, or as he preferred to call her, simply The Bitch. She was speaking in the unmistakable tone of someone in authority giving orders, though he couldn't decipher any specific words.

The next one he had never heard before. It was a male voice and it also held a note of urgency. They both spoke in lowered tones, though the house to them was empty.

He heard footsteps as one of them shifted to the other side of whatever room they resided in. Someone was whispering, though why Dean again couldn't understand. Had they caught on?

He looked back to the foot of the stairs to gauge Deena's reaction, and was met with a look of panic on her face. He started backing down the stairs, John following his example, both still careful not to cause a disturbance that would send whoever was upstairs down to them. If at all possible, they did not want anyone knowing they were there until as late as possible.

By the time Dean reached her, Deena had dropped to her knees and looked a lot like Sam did when he was having a vision.

Dean pulled her face up to look at him.

"Come on," he breathed, hardly daring to let any sound out at all. Her eyes still held a touch of panic, but had the glazed over look that Dean had never quite understood. "What happened?"

**

* * *

**

"Wake up, little Sammy." He heard the voice as he returned painfully to consciousness. It was the sound he had woken up to ever since the night he had left his brother.

He felt the darkness pressing in on him, smothering him. He found he had to concentrate on each breath; it was strange how he had never realized before what an enormous effort it took to draw oxygen into one's lungs.

He couldn't place _whose _voice it was, though. He had known the name at one point, but his mind just didn't want to work properly right now. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't think straight. He tried vainly to hold on to whatever his mind could conjure up; for some reason, even his name managed to escape him at this point. It was like trying to hold water in cupped hands. No matter how hard he tried it would slip out eventually.

"Did you have a nice nap?" The voice whispered in his ear. "You know, you've got some visitors. Do you remember Dean? Or John?"

Oh, god. His memory returned and damn that hurt. For some reason he told himself thinking shouldn't be painful. Yet, amazingly, it did. Everything did these days.

Why had Dean come here? He wasn't lying here trying to remember his own name because it did _him_ any good. He wanted to open his mouth to say something, but all he managed was a low gasp of air. Great. Just freaking wonderful.

Meg pretended to soothe him. "We'll take care of it, Sammy. He deserves to see his baby brother one last time, don't you think?_ I_ think it's finally time to end this." At least Sam tried to move, but he just couldn't gather himself up enough. These past few days, at first he had tried to resist, but he just didn't have the strength anymore. The darkness pressed ruthlessly on him, smothering whatever resistance he might have had.

He felt her palm upon his forehead, which was far from comforting,and knew this was the end; the panic bubbled weakly beneath the surface and he heard a man's voice speaking monotinously, almost rythmically from somewhere behind him. He could anticipate how Dean would react and the selfish part of him was almost glad he wouldn't be around to see the look on his face.

"I think it is safe to say this will be the last one of these little chats we have together. You, your brother, and your damn father have all been royal pains in the ass for us, but at least _you _had a bit of potential. Potential that you just couldn't reach on your own. Can't say it's been nice, but it's been interesting. It's sad, but I finally have to say it: Goodbye Sammy."

He felt a stab of pain coursing through his body for about a split second before he couldn't feel it anymorel. He couldn't feel _anything _anymore.

He suddenly felt cold, colder than he'd ever felt before. His body involuntarily shuddered before it slackened uncontrollably. He took one last gasp of air before he surrendered that ability too.

The darkness used its full abilities; it was on a mission, to take him down. His mind was wandering, and he reached out for anything familiar to comfort him in these last moments. He focused on his family, not like it had been recently----brooding, yelling, and generally miserable----but the times he had actually liked, just never had the time to fully enjoy them because they had to run off and save somebody or kill something. He tried to remember, through the growing haze his mind had formed and in the little time he had left, the times when either John or Dean had actually smiled in a non-sarcastic way.

With these thoughts he surrendered to the darkness and let himself be carried away relatively peacefully.

* * *

Deena gasped weakly as her eyes returned from their glazed-over state. 

"He's gone." Dean froze, suddenly finding himself unable to breathe.

"We have to get out of here. Now!"

**Author's Note: OK, I'm sorry for the wait, but it's been really hectic this week. For the next few chapters I actually had to write an outline, which is really weird for me. (I'm really unorganized) I had to write this stupid paper for my History class that took forever because while using the computer I kept taking little "breaks" to write this. I hate papers. I was going to make this and the next chapter one chapter but I like this ending (a little bit of a cliffhanger) and I figured you guys had waited enough. So originally I was going to have two chapters up next, but I kept arguing with myself over where to put the break. Next chapter is the easiest to decide where to stop but the one after that I just want to throw something heavy across the room when I try to decide which will have the best effect. It's such a tiny thing, where to end chapters, but I'm obsessive with shit like that and it's driving me insane.**

**Well, I promised Sam would be in the story soon. Does that really count? I mean, it wasn't very long, and what's implied isn't very good for him... and I'm talking too much already.**

**One more thing: Grey's Anatomy. I know, totally off subject. I started watching because it had Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who plays John Winchester in it and I was curious, and whoa, his character is like the polar opposite of John. First of all, he actually smiles. He's an awesome character and I just saw the season finale. I freaking cried my eyes out! It was not fair that they did that! Sorry, had to let that out. **

**Next chapter should be out soon, so be patient, please.**

**Review please!**


	10. So Close

**Disclaimer: Guess. Just guess.**

"What do you mean?" Dean breathed. Deena had already pushed herself to her feet and was pulling him by his jacket harder than he would have thought possible from someone of her thin frame.

"I mean," she muttered "that they know we're here and we have to go." All the voices upstairs (from the sound there were four of them) had risen into almost shouts. He again couldn't catch the words because they all seemed to talk at the same time. He thought he heard the words "what the hell were you thinking?" somewhere in there, though. They all seemed to be moving in some way.

"What do you mean, he's gone?" Dean asked, not bothering to whisper. Were they too late?

"Later. Right now, we have to get the hell out of here. They know and they're pissed." She was pushing him toward the door now, and he spun around in protest.

"I'm not leaving." He hadn't come this far to turn back now. He was getting Sam back. He started toward the stairs again, but felt a hand on his shoulder.

"They'll kill you." John tried to pull him back, but Dean shrugged his hand off.

"I don't care." John pushed his way in front of Dean and he tried vainly to shove him out of the way.

"There's nothing you can do for him, Dean," he heard Deena whisper from behind him.

"I'm not going to let him die," Dean hissed at her, and she flinched as if he had yelled in her face.

The silence stretched on before he realized it. It was total silence. Even from upstairs.

A shot rang through the air. John pushed Dean to the ground just in time to miss the bullet that would have hit its mark of Dean's heart had he not intervened.

A voice filled the room, only barely distinguishable as a voice at all. It had that tone of a pissed off demon that more resembled a hiss.

"Listen to them. Leave!" The last word resounded in the air for seconds afterward with staggering force.

Still stunned from the impact of the roar, Dean barely fought as his father half-dragged him out. As they passed through the front door he could have sworn he heard a more human voice, still hostile and barely decipherable, but with a trace of amusement and mocking, whisper sarcastically "good job, Dean."

* * *

"You should have let me go," Dean muttered angrily from the backseat as the trees around him blurred from the speed of the car. John ignored all speed limits, driving as fast as possible without getting them run over a cliff. Deena, still pale, sat in the passenger seat, having been declared by John officially unable to drive at this point in time. 

"You would have died," John insisted simply. "That wouldn't have done any of us good, now, would it?"

"You don't know that," Dean insisted, trying to get his breathing back to normal. An unbearable weight bore down on his chest that left him short of breath. It suddenly hit him how similar this conversation seemed to the one he had with Sam however long ago it had been when Sam had wanted to run into a burning building. He would have laughed if his lungs would have allowed it, and merely managed a few awkward gasps of air that sounded more like dry sobs. When he thought about it, they probably were. In the rear view mirror he saw John's look of concern and dropped his head into his hands.

"I just--- he just--- I can't--- we were so close." He couldn't shut up the part of his brain telling him that he had failed Sam.

"Dean, calm down. We need to create a plan."

Dean raised his head an inch to respond. "We don't have _time _to make a plan. You heard Missouri, he's dying!" He was gasping for air again and had to remind himself that he couldn't have a nervous breakdown. Not now. He dropped his head back down to alleviate some of the dizziness taking hold of his consciousness. He hadn't lost it like this in awhile.

"We just need to take some time, try to make a bit of a plan while Deena tries to get the signal again." John's own voice held a note of well-concealed panic.

"It's not that easy." Deena spoke for the first time since they had left the house, her voice strained and hesitant, as though she knew in advance how they would take the news. A rock settled in the pit of Dean's stomach. "I only needed the signal to get his signature so I could track him. Once I have anyone's signature, no matter what I never lose it. His just disappeared. That's never happened before except for when the person…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

* * *

John pulled up to the curb down the street from the hotel. Deena looked as if she had gained her composure; she had more of her color back and her hands weren't shaking anymore. 

Dean on the other hand had just managed to keep it under the surface. He was panicking, his blood racing, adrenaline pumping. He was pretty sure if he didn't get into a fight soon and kill one of those demons he was going to have a total breakdown. Deena eyed him warily, probably aware how close he was to cracking. Rapidly she turned her head, scanning the crowd of people along the city's sidewalk as John started to walk along the row of parked cars leading to the hotel.

"Don't go that way," Deena warned. She nodded in the opposite direction. "Let's circle around the other way."

"Why?" John asked promptly.

"They followed us. Two of them."

"Where are they?"

"Predictably, they're the ones in the total darkness. Now that's cliché. Over on the bench." Dean swept his glance over to the bench eight feet away almost to his direct right. It was around midnight, so everyone was in shadow, basically. The 'couple' sat close together. Dean couldn't see either of their faces because of the two's current game of tonsil hockey.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, turning back to Deena. "Them?" He jabbed his finger over his shoulder.

"Looks can be deceiving." They had finally separated and the girl looked over the guy's shoulder at them. She had shoulder-length raven hair and if she hadn't been a demon, Dean would have admired how hot she was. He saw her smile in his direction, and her eyes turned black for about half a second before returning her attention to the guy she was sitting with.

"Or not," Dean muttered, following after Deena and John, having to push through people in the crowd to catch up with their brisk pace. He allowed a glance over his shoulder at the demons. Peering between two heads to get a better view and walking while being jostled by the crowd was proving difficult. God, you'd think it was freaking New York City. He saw they had moved from their perch on the bench to glide swiftly through the crowd. Dean noticed they seemed to have their own portable shadow-maker or something; that was the only explanation of how they could still look menacing in the light of the neon Lenny's Old-FashionedTheatre sign.The only real defining featureshe had seen werethe girl's black eyes and the back of the guy's head. He _had_ noticed they both wore all black. It figured. Just figured.

He almost had a heart attack when he felt someone pull him into an alleyway and nearly ended up landing a punch right on his father's nose.

"Nice, Dean," John commented when he had calmed down. "Did you see them?"

"Barely. I couldn't give you a correct description of either, except she has black eyes and was hot in an evil-demon way and the he seriously needs to brush his hair or something."

"Were they following us?" John asked, barely waiting for Dean to finish his previous statement. Dean nodded.

"I think we should split up," Dean said, quickly so John wouldn't cut him off.

"No." Dean was starting to think that was his father's favorite word these days and just liked coming up with excuses to use it.

"Look, we just circle around the area a few times, try to lose them. Meet back at the hotel. It's not that dangerous."

"No. When we split up, nothing good ever happens."

"We've got a better chance. Got any brilliant ideas yourself?"

John was silent.

"You go with Deena, dad. I'll go alone. There are two of you but I have the Colt." He addressed Deena. "Did you get anything from Sam yet?" She probably would have told him if she had. He had to ask, though. Predictably, she shook her head. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, he forced out the words "Alright, then" and walked off, leaving Deena and John behind.

He took a right turn while he heard John and Deena turn left on the same route.

It was empty in the small street he had turned onto. Quiet too, leading no one to believe that there was a huge crowd of people merely yards away. It didn't look wide enough for a car to pass through from what he could see. It was hard to tell judging by the total darkness. It was the middle of the night and there were no lights anywhere nearby.

At least he could tell generally where solid walls were, so he didn't worry about knocking himself out or anything as he made his way cautiously down the alleyway.

It wasn't long before he heard the footsteps. Glancing behind him, he saw a vague outline. Judging by the general build of it, he could tell it was the guy. When he moved it was harder to see him. It didn't help that the guy was wearing black. He quickened his pace and turned his gaze back to his front, where he just managed to miss hitting a wall with full force before turning tipsily to the right. He heard a small chuckle behind him, which pissed him off even more. Nobody laughed at him like that since Sam left and it made him wish even more that he could turn around and kick the crap out of this asshole. He held the Colt ready just in case.

Five minutes later the guy still matched his pace and no matter how complicated he made his turns or how quiet he made his footsteps, the rhythmic sound of boots hitting the ground met his ears. On top of that, he was pretty sure he was lost.

At one point, when he was trying to decide whether or not that was a car he had heard, the footsteps came to a stop and he could no longer see the dark shape behind him. His hand tightened around the Colt. If it was a fight this bastard wanted, it was a fight he would get. But, unexpectedly, as Dean continued walking the footsteps did not return nor did anyone attack him, though he did just barely manage to conceal the fact he had a gun as he stepped around a corner and saw a person standing there.

Still cautious, he walked along the main road, where the crowds were finally dispersing. Stopping to check his location a few times, he managed to find his way to the hotel. Searching his surroundings one last time, he went to their room on the first floor. Not many people were staying at the hotel and the hall was absolutely deserted.

Deena and John hadn't shown up yet, and Dean felt the first twinge of nerves.

Dean immediately walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap and splashed his face with water. If anything happened to Deena or John it would be his fault, like so many other things in his screwed up life.

Too tired to stand anymore, he sunk to the ground, leaning against the wall for support and dropping his head into his arms. He looked pathetic, but he just didn't care. He was alone, so he felt no need to keep up appearances any longer. He had been trying to conceal his emotions, his panic, from everyone. He thought he had done a pretty good job up until this point.

Everything was pressing in around him. He felt like he was being smothered.

They didn't have time for sitting around doing nothing. Not at this point. Deena had lost the signal. That had only happened when someone had died. He just couldn't picture Sam dead, he couldn't. When he did, all rational thought escaped him.

For the second time that night, he found himself short of breath. He had an uncontrollable lump in his throat, his eyes were burning, and he just wanted to give up.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't fall apart like this, for Sam's sake. He needed to be logical, he needed to be reasonable. One part of his brain told him to haul his ass off the ground and do something, but all the other half asked for him to do was sit here and fall apart like a child.

He had already started down the second road and he was finding it hard to pull himself back. He slowly quieted his dry sobs, took a deep breath, splashed some more cold water on his face, and headed back into the main room.

Automatically, his eyes traveled to the protective circle on the ceiling. It was already delicate because they would obviously raise eyebrows using something more permanent like marker, so they'd had to settle for a grease pencil. It had taken forever, but it left room for mistakes. Part of the main circle had been smudged off. Dean immediately grabbed the pencil off the bedside table and stepped up to correct it. Keeping his hands busy usually helped when he was going through a problem.

He heard a knock from outside the window on the pane, but when he checked he reassured himself by seeing the rather large branch knocking on it.

As he connected the two bits of line, it hit him like a train, knocking all air out of his lungs. Why had this only come to him now? He almost dropped the grease pencil out of shock. He tried to tell himself he was wrong, he couldn't be right.

It was like he was getting a fast forward of all the key points the evening had offered. The guy in the shadows. The girl. He hadn't seen either of their faces, but he remembered certain moments. The girl had to crane her neck to see over the guy's shoulder. Because the guy had been freakishly tall. He'd had untidy brown hair. Deena lost the signal before the other demons started yelling at Meg for doing something. The voice that had hissed at him at the door.

"Hey, Dean." He didn't turn around. He knew what he'd see when he did. Bracing himself, he climbed down from the bed.

"Miss me?"

**Author's Note: I guess I left it at a bit of a cliffhanger there. Please review! Ilove to get people's feedback. I have most of the next two chapters done and I'm working out the outline for the next part. (which I only have a general idea of, I'll admit) In terms of the show, if chapter two was the season premiere, this would be around the second or third episode. Again, please review!**


	11. Miss Me?

**Disclaimer: You know it by now.**

"Miss me?" Dean turned, dreading what he would see when he did. As he looked up, he saw the tall figure leaning casually against the windowpane.

He had been waiting so long to see that face, but not like this. Not in this twisted way. The once familiar features had changed since the last time Dean had seen them. The once warmly brown irises had darkened into an almost black shade, which made all of his features seem more angular, surrounding him with a ruthless and cold aura. His hair looked messier, and also a bit darker. He was dressed completely in black, from his jacket, the t-shirt underneath it, to his boots. There was only one word to sum up his posture, look, and attitude: evil.

"Sam?" It came out in a whisper, as if he only half believed it himself. The figure shifted and smiled, teeth glinting in the moonlight shining through the window.

"You got it," he responded, pushing himself from his leaning position. "It seems like it's been awhile, doesn't it?" He raised an eyebrow, still standing all the way on the other side of the room. "Well, you found me. What now?" He raised his hands up in question.

When Dean didn't respond, Sam took a few steps forward, craning his neck up at the circle.

"Sorry I messed up your little circle thing. But I had to distract you; I figured it would have a bit more effect if I came in while you were actually in the room. Adds a bit of the spook-out factor. Not that it would have done you any good; it was always my type of thing anyway." A few feet away, Sam's grin widened at Dean's obvious confusion.

"You don't understand," Sam explained.

"You're not Sam," Dean said. For a split second he saw Sam's smile falter.

"Oh, but I am," Sam stated. He looked at Dean like he trying to trick a six year-old into believing that two plus two equals five. Dean numbly shook his head. Sam took another step toward him and the muscles in Dean's body automatically tensed, preparing him for a fight. Sam halted.

"What's wrong, Dean?" He asked in mock concern. "You don't like it? I happen to think it's quite an improvement."

"What did you do to him?"

"I told you, dumbass. He's standing right here." Dean's temper was starting to flare up, like the first flames of a fire.

"What did you do to him?" His voice had gained back its normal edge.

"Mind your tone, Dean. I am your younger brother, you know." Then, as an aside "Not that it's ever stopped you before." Sam, was trying to provoke him, and it was working. He couldn't keep his temper under control.

"No you're not." He was practically yelling now, Sam still with a tiny smirk plastered on his face. Dean crossed the last bit of space between them and roughly grabbed the front of Sam's jacket. Sam didn't resist. "I know my brother, and you're not him. Now what did you do to him, you _son of a bitch_?"

"He's gone, and he's never coming back," Sam said, not breaking his ice-cold penetrating glare from Dean's. Ripping his gaze from Sam's face, Dean shoved him hard away.

"You're lying," he muttered defiantly, shaking his head. "He's not gone, I know it."

Sam laughed. "At least, what you knew me as. I've changed a lot since the last time we met. You see, I've always been this way, I've always had the potential to be this, I was just waiting to be let out. I'm not 'possessed' as you so desperately would like to think, Dean."

"That's bullshit, and you know it!"

"I was afraid at first, I fought it when they tried to bring this part of me out. I was too scared I'd turn into a monster. After a bit of 'persuasion,' I gave up trying. I felt my mind start to change, and suddenly it wasn't such a bad thing. I've got to tell you, it feels great. I feel more like myself every day. I keep feeling like this is who I'm supposed to be. Even before I changed, before I became stronger, I knew I was capable of so much more. I had everything in me already, I just needed help to find the way. I chose this. The old Sam, the one you know, is gone. I am the way I was meant to be since the day I was born." The smirk widened and his eyes gave off a wicked glint. Dean would have kicked the living shit out of this guy, had there not been the minor inconvenience that it was his brother. Or was it? He was so confused it hurt. "I am him, I always have been. I just finally got my chance to really live the way I've always deserved. I used to think of this as a curse, but now I know better. It's a gift."

"_This _is a gift? You're Darth Vader without the helmet and lightsaber!"

"Dean, it's not like that."

"What is it like, Sam? You've freaking turned to the dark side!"

"Trust me, it's what's best. I always lived in fear of what I was capable of. They helped me embrace what I am, not fear it."

"Fear what? Fear this? He needs to be afraid of this! He needs to fear things like you!"

The wicked glint got worse and it seemed as if Sam was able to bend the shadows to his will, making them hit him in just the right way. It made his features look sharper and his eyes seem even blacker. He had the classic demon look down, that was for sure. It was definitely enough to scare a normal person; Dean had never been considered particularly normal, but seeing Sam look like that got pretty close to scaring the crap out of him.

"You know," Sam started, pacing a bit, "if you care so much about me, if you think this wasn't best for me, where were you to talk me out of it? Or better yet, where were you when I first decided to leave? Oh, right, you were in the corner, sitting there with your jaw hanging open, not a word spoken as I willinglysacrificed myself for you!" Sam had hit that one out of the park.

Dean wanted this conversation to end _right then. _He took the one normal gun he had out. He couldn't use the real gun; John would kill him. But if he had to knock Sam out he sure as hell would.

Sam looked unsurprised at the gun in his brother's hand. "How quick we are to change the subject." He gestured to the gun. "That won't help. You can't kill me. One of the quirks. You know, I've been doing quite a lot these days. I guess you could call them 'errands.' I even got shot once or twice (it's a dangerous world) but that's alright. I don't suffer those consequences." Dean tried to keep his expression neutral, though he had no idea what the last sentence had meant.

Sam pulled off the cross between the 'not having a care in the world' look and the 'I'm your brother turned into a dark lord of the Sith, what are you going to do about it?' look flawlessly. He stepped toward Dean so that they were standing nearly face to face. Nearly because Sam had come so close Dean was forced to look up at him; Sam's freakish height always succeeded in pissing him off to no end. This bastard knew what buttons to push.

"Don't worry, Dean" he said, his voice honey-coated with fake concern. "I've been put to a much better purpose than I could have ever hoped." His expression turned more hostile. "I can do so much more than I would have been able to do with my _pathetic_ existence. I don't have anyone holding me back, no one hurting me."

That was it. Something snapped inside of Dean. As fast and hard as he was able to, he stepped back just far enough to throw his entire weight into the punch he sent flying at Sam.

Sam reeled back a bit, but recovered faster than the real Sam would have. Dean felt no regret having just hit his brother. It wasn't exactly the first time he and his brother had come to blows. Still holding his nose, Sam looked up at Dean through his dark bangs. His irises had turned flat black. Cracking his neck to the side, he quickly regained his composure, a look of triumph melded in with the anger.

"You're going to regret that."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah." Sam shook his head, though in his eyes Dean could see he wanted a fight.

Fast, faster than Dean thought was humanly possible, he found himself jerked, flipped, and unceremoniously thrown on the ground, breath knocked out of him. The gun slid off into the corner. He told himself the only reason Sam had been able to do that was because of the element of surprise. It wouldn't happen again.

Unexpectedly, he saw Sam's face above his, Sam himself kneeling right next to Dean.

"You said once that you've always been able to kick my ass, ever since we were kids, and that you always would be. Well, Dean, how about it? Willing to test that theory? Can you still kick your little brother's ass?"

"You're not Sam."

"Whatever you want to tell yourself, Dean. Don't forget, Dean, evil or not I _am _your baby ----"

Dean cut him off in mid-smirk, grabbing him by the hair and jerking his own head to collide with Sam's.

Sam, temporarily stunned, had stumbled backwards a few feet. Shaking off his own dizziness, Dean regained his footing and took advantage of Sam's weakened position, shoving him against the wall, pinning him there.

His advantage didn't last long. Sam struggled hard and finally managed to ram an elbow into Dean's temple. Dean saw spots in his vision and before he managed to hit back he felt a foot connecting with his stomach and then a fist connecting with his jaw. Sam took advantage of the situation and Dean found himself flying backwards. He hit the table, slid across the surface, and landed on his back.

He saw Sam lean down to grab the front of his jacket, no doubt to ram him into something again. His breath returning, Dean landed a good kick square on Sam's chest, throwing him back into the table. Dean practically leaped back to his feet while Sam steadied himself.

When Dean threw his fist out, intending to punch Sam right between the eyes, he felt something stop his hand in mid-air. Surprisingly, he saw that Sam had grabbed his wrist with one hand. Sam twisted his arm painfully and shoved him roughly back, sending Dean falling tipsily backward onto the bed. Sam advanced on Dean quickly and he quickly ducked down and pushed up, sending Sam flying over his back, sprawling on the ground behind the bed. Dean regained his footing and ran over to the other side, where he suddenly found his feet jerked from underneath him.

When Sam leaned over him, Dean elbowed him in the face. Regaining his footing, Dean hurried over to Sam, who was still on his hands and knees. Sam lashed out, punching Dean in the face. In a flash, he had his hands around Dean's neck, forcing him to the ground, and within seconds Dean was fighting for air.

**Okay, not that bad of a cliffhanger, but still a cliffhanger. I'm sorry if that was confusing. If anyone has trouble understanding (I tried as hard as I could to make it clear, but I understand if you don't get it) leave it in a review or e-mail me. I edited and edited this, it started out totally different (this chapter and next were one long chapter, but I decided "why the hell not?"). Again, I'm sorry if it was confusing, and if enough people comment on that aspect, I will try editing it to make it clearer. I have to say, this is the chapter I've worked most on and also the chapter I'm most worried I've blown. Please review with questions or comments!**


	12. Turned To The Dark Side

**Disclaimer: Let's all repeat it together, class. 'I do not own Sam and Dean except for in my own private dreams.' Good. A+ for everyone.**

"Yeah, it's not that much fun being strangled, is it?" Sam pushed harder, and Dean grasped desperately at the hands curled around his throat.

Dean found his air supply brought back for a few seconds as Sam pulled him roughly to his feet. The spots in front of his eyes prevented him from full clarity of his situation. He was brought roughly back as he heard a great shatter and felt his head hitting the glass, the blood trickling down his temple slowly. Sam slammed him against the wall nearby for good measure.

Dean tried to think of a way to get out of this situation, but his mind was hazing over. He wondered if he really was going to be killed by his younger brother. For a second he was mad, and then he told himself that anger was not going to solve his problem. He had to think.

He _had_ to get out of this. For Sam. If he died, Sam wouldn't have anyone to get him through this. Sam needed serious help. This was not his fault that this had happened to him. John might have been able to help, but Dean doubted it. He would end up shooting Sam if worst came to worst. Dean knew if he couldn't do this, then there wasn't any hope after all.

Ignoring the ruthless look on his brother's face, he tried to concentrate. Only one idea came to mind. Sam was too close to punch but far enough away for his new plan to work. He used the solid surface the wall provided for leverage, pulling his legs up close to his body and kicked out with all the power he could muster given his lack of oxygen.

Sam fell back, and while he regained his footing Dean got a few good gulps of air in. He was desperate and did the first thing that came to his mind. He tackled Sam to the ground while he was still recovering in a crouching position. Dean tried with all his might to hold Sam down, but Sam landed a good right hook and kicked him off. Sam smoothly leaped to his feet without using his hands. When Dean tried to pull himself up, Sam viciously kicked him in the stomach, sending him down again, winded. Sam placed a boot on his chest and pushed, securing Dean in place while he gasped. Sam leaned down to his level.

"Is that the best you can do, Dean? I thought you'd put up a better fight than this." Dean knew what he had to do. It was childish, but it just might work. He saw Sam's surprised expression as he reached up, grabbed a good bunch of Sam's hair, and yanked him to the side. To stun him, Dean slammed his head into the side of the table, not as hard as he would for a normal person, but enough to make it hurt like a bitch. He twisted Sam's right arm around behind his back, and shoved him to the floor face-first.

"Well, I guess my 'theory' was right," Dean muttered smugly, keeping Sam firmly in place. Sam struggled but was unable to get himself out of his position. Dean could tell he was really pissed off now. "Wow, that didn't take long, did it?"

"You're not going to do this to your own brother, are you?" Sam said. Dean ignored him and looked around the room for a form of restraint.

"I don't have time for this..." Dean muttered. Sam had raised his head to speak, and Dean shoved it roughly down, starting a new wave of struggling from Sam.

"Why can't you accept me for what I am?"

"Oh, give it up. Suddenly you're all 'don't do this, Dean. I'm your brother'? Maybe he's not possessed, but they did something to screw with his mind. And maybe you _have_ always been in there, but _he's_ still in there too. And he needs my help. There's still hope for him. He would never do this."

"_Your_ Sam is gone. That switch is permanently off. Jesus, Dean, it's not like they forced me into this. When you think about it, they were trying to help."

"Oh, yeah, they were trying to help! They were trying to help by killing mom! And _Jess_! And all those innocent people! It's comments like that that convince me you're not really him!"

"I wanted meaning, I wanted answers to why I was born the way I was. I can finally get them. They were there the entire—"

"Oh, will you SHUT THE HELL UP?" Dean yelled. Taking a deep breath, he spoke. "Well, then," Dean muttered, pulling out the Colt "if he's gone," he held the gun to Sam's head "then it won't matter if I shoot you?" He tried as hard as he was capable to stop his hand from shaking, not wanting Sam to call his bluff.

"Go ahead," Sam sneered, turning his head to face Dean, who looked away. "But are you really able to ignore the tiny bit of your mind that's telling you I'm lying? You're going to let me go because you can't live with yourself knowing that Meg wasn't the one that killed me, the Demon wasn't the one that killed me. You wouldn't make it knowing that _you _killed me. Not when you knew there was hope." He saw that this Sam understood Dean's weakness, so similar to his father's: his family.

"Dean." He looked up. The voice sounded almost normal, almost like the real Sam. "I want you to look me in the eyes and see if you can still pull that trigger."

Dean slowly turned his eyes to Sam's. And there was something in them, though, something Dean didn't quite understand at first, then he recognized it with a shower of hope.

"He's not gone," Dean stated. He saw it in Sam's eyes.

"Right." Sam rolled his eyes. "You just keep telling yourself that. Can we just get this over with? Your constant denial is really starting to piss me off."

"You're lying. He's not. He has a chance to pull through this."

"Oh, great. Try to bring me back to the light side of the force, Luke. Look how that turned out for Darth Vader. I've been there, done that, got the souvenir to prove it. 'I sacrificed myself for my older brother and all I got was this f—king t-shirt.' I was going to wear it, but some asshole shot me, which really stung. Darth Vader isn'texactly my role model. I _really_ don't want to die, Dean."

"Nobody is dying tonight."

"You're so pathetic, you always have been. You can't accept it, can you? That I've just simply changed. You never accepted, for example, that I was different. I guess you were afraid it might land you here."

Dean didn't understand what he meant at first. Not until something large and heavy hit him hard, knocking him on his side and forcing him to let go of Sam. Sam quickly regained his footing.

"You know, I forgot what a _dumbass_ you could be sometimes." Dean realized the thing that had hit him was a chair. With a jolt, he remembered it had been on the other side of the room.

"Oh, shit," he spat.

"Yeah, Dean. Did you forget: I'm a psychic? And now I know how to _use _my powers." Even the whites of his eyes had turned totally black; he was hardly recognizable anymore. Objects had started to hover all over the room, from the phone, chair, even the table had risen a few inches. There was wind blowing from an unknown source, swirling around them. Papers, books, and all other thing that weren't secured to the ground raised up next, shaking violently. Finally, Dean saw the gun he had dropped in the corner rise and point itself at him. But by the time it was aimed directly at Dean's head, he was pointing the Colt at Sam.

It was no use trying to run; Sam would get to him first. But he wasn't going down without a fight.

"You don't have to do this."

Sam laughed cruelly. "Spare me."

"Answer me this first. Please, the truth. Did you agree to this? Did my Sam agree to this?"

Sam looked like he was debating whether or not to simply tell the truth. Dean could tell he decided against it. "I just accepted what I am."

"Did they do something to you? Was this really your choice?"

"I don't have time for this."

"Did. They give you.A choice? I need to know."

"You don't _need _anything from me. Just like I don't need anything from you. And I don't have to talk to you about this." Dean felt himself shoved painfully down by an unseen force. He pulled himself up and within moments he had the Colt pointed back at Sam. "I came here to say 'hey, goodbye, don't worry about me I'm doing fine.'" Sam smiled and shook his head. Dean was careful not to make any sudden movements as he stood. "Not that I expected it would be that simple. I knew you well enough for that. You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever when it comes to me. I've got to say, I'm flattered." He shrugged, and the gun floated back to his outstretched hand.

He gestured to the Colt in Dean's hand. "You can put that down. I promise I won't shoot you unless I _totally have to." _He raised an eyebrow in question, waiting. "Or if you really piss me off," he added.

"Come on, you know you won't really use it anyway," Sam persuaded. "I know you. But if it makes you feel safe, by all means, go on with your delusions." Dean kept the gun raised.

"Shouldn't you be fine with the knowledge that I'm doing great, that I'm healthy and happy? I have no problem with this life. I feel great. Better than I ever have before. Do you know how great it is to be able to control it?" The gun smoothly rose from his palm. He spun it around, and it grew faster with every turn, until it was merely a swirling blur.

"I have control. I can control my life now."

Dean snorted. Sam looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Sorry, you're just saying that _you're _in control." He was still laughing as he spoke, and Sam didn't exactly look amused. A window shattered behind Dean, and he ducked down to avoid the glass flying everywhere. From the ground he continued. "And last time I checked, you didn't _want_ your life to turn out with you as a dark lord of the Sith."

"God, I forgot what a smartass you tried to be."

"I'm sorry, Anakin, but did you just say _I _was the smartass? I must admit, I do flatter myself sometimes thinking—" Before he could finish. Dean felt a sharp pain on his right cheek. He reached up and felt a deep slash. One of the pieces of shattered glass was hovering inches from his face threateningly.

"Can we stop with the Star Wars analogies now?" Sam asked.

"I'll stop with the Star Wars analogies when you let me see my brother."

"Oh, smooth, Dean. Tempting, too." Sam smiled appreciatively. Dean kept his eyes on the shard of glass still hovering inches away from his skin. "I can see you still haven't lost your business sense," he continued sarcastically. "But do you really think it's that simple? I don't exactly have a delete button."

"So he is still in there?"

"It's not like there's a whole other person in here, trapped. Nobody is controlling me. I know my actions, I know why I do these things. I make my own decisions. I have no problem with who I am. I always wanted to be this way."

"Sam, I promise, we can get through this together. I—"

"Together?" Sam said. Dean could tell he had said something wrong. "And how are you planning that? You don't even _know _what I'm going through! **Nobody **does. Nobody knows what I went through to get here. Going around, afraid to sleep because next time I might have seen you or dad die! I was scared for you, Dean. I knew that one day I might wake up with you pinned on the fucking ceiling. I'm not afraid anymore. I don't have to be. This was what I was born to do."

"No!" Dean yelled. "This is _not _what you were born to do, Sam! You don't have to do this to not be afraid. I can help you."

"Trust me," he said coldly. "I'm beyond any help _you_ could give me."

"You don't have to turn into this."

"Into what?" Sam snapped, his eyes ice cold. "A monster?" Dean opened his mouth to contradict him, but Sam cut him off. "No. That's alright, I wouldn't expect any less of an assumption from you. It's all black and white in your eyes." The glass painfully ripped through his jacket and deep into the flesh of his right shoulder. He struggled not to wince as it sank deeper. "It's always kill, kill, kill, you never even bother to get the story."

"This isn't you." Dean pulled the glass out of his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Sam acted like he hadn't seen.

"And what am I, really?"

"You're Sam Winchester, my geeky, bratty, freakishly tall baby brother. You don't have to rely upon demons to solve your problem. This _is_ a part of you, but it's not a part you want to let control you. You can live without this."

Sam paused, his expression neutral. "Without this?" Sam shook his head in denial. "Do you know what I am without this? I rely upon my old self as a backup, a fall-back just in case. But when I do go back to the weak creature I was, I can't control my powers. Do you know what it's like to have this great power, you can heal, you can kill in the blink of an eye and then have it taken away?" He frowned for a second. "I guess you don't."

"That part of me is telling myself to be guilty about doing this. But you know what? I kept that side of me for a reason. I went back to it for a reason. I needed something to remind me of the pathetic existence I had. And it was in those times where I remembered why I started all this: you. Suddenly I could remember everything: why I loved you so much, why I would do anything for you. But now?" He shook his head, looking Dean over. "I _just don't get it_.

"I needed it then, but not now." He looked to Dean with a smile on his face. "It's time to let it die. And I think this is the perfect time, what with you here and all. I'll be back after it's done. Goodbye, Dean." He waved in a mock-cheery way. Dean was surprised at the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

"What are you—" Dean started in horror.

Before Dean quite understood what Sam was doing, his eyes closed and the transformation began. Sam cried out once in pain and doubled over as his eyes turned from all black to a glowing white shade. His hair was lightening, the shadows around him dissipating. The floating objects around the room all dropped. A few seconds later, Dean started to see the first of the blood soaking through Sam's shirt, almost unnoticeable against the black fabric.

"Oh my god," Dean whispered as Sam's eyes closed and his knees gave out. He just managed to catch his weight as he fell against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around his baby brother, having no intention of leaving his side ever again, not caring about the blood ruining his favorite jacket. He found himself unwilling to let Sam go, even though he told himself he had to; Sam was hurt, probably fatally so. Part of him was afraid if he did let go, he would find out it was a dream, and Sam would be gone again. He didn't want to go through that. Somehow he knew this was _his _Sam, the one he had been searching for. He sat there for a few long moments with Sam's head on his shoulder—almost like when they were little and Sam would come into Dean's room, scared by some dream he had—comforted with his rhythmic breathing for the time.

Various cuts and bruises covered Sam's face, some of which, Dean realized with a jolt, he had inflicted. As he gently lowered Sam's limp form to the floor, he noticed that the blood was almost completely soaking his shirt, and his hair was starting to turn red and sticky with the blood seeping over it from a deep wound on his head.

Dean remembered. He realized the reason why this was happening. Sam didn't have control of his powers, so he couldn't keep the injuries at bay. That was what he had meant when he had said "I don't suffer those consequences." Only this Sam did. And he was going to let this part die. The part of Sam that Dean loved.

But how was that even possible? You couldn't kill a part of you. How would a physical death not kill both of them? It was impossible.

Yet Dean found he really didn't care if it was possible or not. All he cared about was that his brother was dying, and he wasn't going to let him go.

He heard Sam gasp one last time, and then stop breathing altogether. Dean muttered a few choice expletives as he leaned down.

"Come on, Sam," Dean urged, trying to coax Sam back to the world of the living. He reached with shaking, blood-covered fingers to check for a pulse. He felt nothing, and Dean felt his own heart stop in his chest. "Don't do this to me."

**Author's Note: Hope you liked it. A little bit of a cliffhanger there. I can't really think of a comment I'd like to add except: PLEASE REVIEW! I have the next few chapters done (you're going to _really _hate me at Chapter 14), and the more reviews I get, the sooner it comes out. That's technically not blackmail, right? Right. That's bribery.**

**The quote at the beginning of the chapter, "It's not that much fun being strangled, is it?"is a nod to how many times Sam has been strangled and Dean has had to save him.**

**I need a chapter title for this chapter, and if anyone has any ideas I'm open to them.**

**P.S. I can't believe I'm already at Chapter 12.**

**P.P.S. Again, I apologize if this was confusing. If anybody needs me to explain, I will. But you weren't really supposed to know what was going on. Nobody does in this story.**

**Next chapter is packed with a lot of emotional shit. I guess you could call it an emotional roller coaster for Dean.**

**P.P.P.S. Oh, yeah. Please review. Remember, the more reviews... **

**P.P.P.P.S. Hope you like the new summary for the story. It's a little bit of an excerpt from the next bit.**

**I thank everyone who is following this story. I like to know people are reading this and that I'm not just writing to nobody. I also thank anybody who actually reads my author's notes.**


	13. Not You

**Chapter 13: Not You**

**Disclaimer: I don't want to talk about it. You can guess for yourself.**

"Come on, Sam. You can't do this. Not now." He let go of Sam's wrist and leaned down to his chest to see if he could detect a sign of life there.

Dean hardly dared to breathe until he found something. He finally detected the beating of a pulse, so weak and erratic that he hadn't sensed it at first. But Dean knew if Sam didn't start breathing soon, having a pulse wouldn't last. He was turning paler by the second.

"Dammit, I really didn't want to have to do this." He quickly tried to remember the proper technique for mouth-to-mouth. He'd only had to perform it once. On Sam, ironically, when Dean was eighteen and Sam fourteen. Not an experience he had ever wanted to repeat, but he wasn't really in a position to choose circumstances.

"You really owe me, man." Dean tilted Sam's head back, leaned down, pinched Sam's nose closed, and blew two quick breaths into Sam's airway. He listened carefully for signs of breath to no avail and he repeated the process. By the fourth time he was just starting to lose hope, but was finally greeted with a gasp. It was choked and weak, but at least that meant Sam was alive. Sam's forehead creased, like he was concentrating hard on something.

"Good, Sam," he said, tilting his head up to get better air-flow and chuckling weakly with relief. "You know, I happen to have met many people who would kill for that opportuni—"

"What the…" he heard from the doorway. Dean didn't dare look away from Sam's face, afraid he would stop breathing again if he tore his gaze away. He didn't have to glance up to know who was now racing to his side. He heard John's knees hit the ground beside him, and saw his hands checking for a pulse at Sam's neck.

"He's alive," Dean reassured him, his voice choked. "Where the hell were you?" he added. John might have come in handy when Sam stopped freaking breathing.

"First of all," John began while checking Sam's vital signs, leaning down to his chest to check his breathing, "we got lost; thanks a lot for your wonderful idea. Next that girl tried to attack us. Nearly gave me agoddamnblack eye before running off. Nice girl."

"Well at least Sam waited until I got back here to the hotel to try and kill me." John froze midway through pulling Sam's jacket off.

"What—"

"How did you think he got here? He was the asshole outside sticking his tongue down that girl's throat. Yeah, he tried to freaking murder me." He immediately regretted saying that. It wasn't Sam's fault.

"Okay, you can explain later. Deena, get some towels, half dry half soaked in warm water. And hurry!" The sound of someone exiting the room at a run met Dean's ears.

"We have to get him to the hospital. Soon." Dean rolled his eyes. Duh.

Dean was almost afraid to look as John carefully lifted the blood-stained t-shirt. It wasn't as if he'd never seen blood before, he just couldn't really handle this right now.

It was as bad as Dean had thought it would be. There was one wound on Sam's right shoulder, inflicted by a gunshot most likely. Dean also saw what looked like claw marks, extending diagonally from Sam's left shoulder down to his right hip, blood seeping out. There was also a symbol Dean didn't recognize cut into his left forearm. Judging by the amount of blood loss, it would be a miracle if he lasted thirty minutes without a hospital.

"We have to stop the bleeding, or he'll die before we get there," John said, trying to keep the well-concealed panic under control. As if on cue, Deena returned with the towels. They would have to do.

"Deena," John said, turning to her, in the mode for giving commands "I need you to get the car ready. Make sure we have as much room in the back as possible." Deena nodded and hurried out without a word. Every second would count. John briefly turned his gaze on Dean while he unfolded the towels. "Alright, tell me what happened."

John and Dean worked on staunching the blood flow as best they could while Dean gave the quick run-down of events. Dean pressed the towel to Sam's wounds while John used his knife to cut one of to large towels into strips. Once they had done all they could do and Dean had finished the story he made a few futile attempts to wake Sam up while John held the towel to his head to stop the bleeding. Sam's head was tossing and turning from side to side in a restless way, making it harder for John to press the blood-soakedcloth to his injury, his breathing already coming more difficult. Once he cried out in pain for no apparent reasons Dean couldn't come up with and he tried his best to comfort him. Deena returned about thirty seconds later, telling them everything was ready.

As careful as he was, Sam still gasped painfully, only partly conscious, as Dean propped his brother's limp body against his chest.

"Sorry, Sam," he said, trying as hard as he could not to damage his brother further as he prepared to lift him. John reached out to help.

"I got him," Dean said.

"I'll help you. He's too—"

"No. I got him, okay?" John backed off, and Dean turned his attention back to his brother. "Okay, Sammy, this may hurt a bit for a second, so I'm sorry in advance." He put one arm underneath Sam's knees and the other behind his back. It was the only way he could carry him without bothering the injuries further. He carefully lifted him up, and the sharp inhalation of breath and tenseness of Sam's body told Dean that he was at least partially conscious. He was heavy, but Dean was going to carry his brother out to the freaking car. It was the least he could do given he had nearly gotten him killed.

As they made their way to the car, Dean looked down at his younger brother. He just wanted to see those eyes open and be their normal, non-demonic-looking brown. He wanted Sam to smile again in that young, toothy way of his. He would welcome anything from Sam. He looked too peaceful for comfort, even though his forehead was creased, like he was having a troubling dream; Dean had never seen him so pale, so close to death and he could hear every ragged breath.

Nobody was around to see the awkward scene, and Dean silently thanked whatever god there was. They didn't need to create a scene when Sam's life was in the balance. It was already a miracle they had decided to stay at a hotel so unpopulated no one noticed the fight taking place.

Dean admitted John's help to load Sam into the back seat, at which point Dean could tell Sam had lost consciousness again. Deena tossed Dean the car keys with her left arm, her right bleeding from what looked like a knife wound. He didn't have to ask to know it had been the chick's work. Dean's own shoulder hurt like a bitch but he had no right to complain when his baby brother might die of blood-loss from his injuries. Dean could handle a scratch.

Just as Dean was climbing inside the driver's side, he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. John gestured for the keys.

"I'll drive," John said, the words coming out hurried and impatient. "I need you to sit with Sam." Dean didn't hesitate in turning the keys over. He practically leaped into the back seat, having to lean on his knees on the floorboard. He wasn't complaining, though. "Dean, be careful. We don't know if this really is Sam."

"I'm getting his signal again, but that could mean anything," Deena informed him.

The car started as soon as he heard John's door shut and within seconds they were speeding off, probably beyond all of the speed limits. Dean had always considered them guidelines anyway.

"The nearest hospital is fifteen minutes away, ten if we're lucky. If anything happens, anything at all, let me know. Check his pulse every once in awhile and if there's anything you can do to help him get through this, we're all open to ideas. Talk to him or something."

Dean obeyed almost immediately. "Sam?" he whispered. He decided to go against his motto and slipped his hand over Sam's, which had fallen over the edge of the seat. With his other hand he reached up to brush the bangs out of Sam's eyes, which still hadn't opened.

"Hey." He realized his voice had changed, hardly recognizable. He was whispering, though he really didn't need to, and he had adopted a comforting tone he had never heard himself use before. "It's Dean, your big brother. Well, I found you. Though, I have to say I didn't really want it to turn out like this. But the point is that I promised you I wouldn't abandon you, and I didn't." Sam's forehead was frighteningly warm underneath his palm, and his grip tightened on Sam's hand, which remained limp. "I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, would you please open your eyes? Just give me some sign of life other than breathing, because that's really not comforting." Naturally, he got no response.

"Well, since you can't really hear me, I may as well get this off my chest." He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, blew it out through his clenched teeth, and looked back at his brother. "I'm sorry, Sam," he muttered, his voice barely audible. He heard John shift uncomfortably in his seat. He had heard. "For everything. For Jess. For this. I'm so sorry for this. I should have done something. I could have done something."

The weight was back. His throat felt like it was closing up, but he needed to keep talking. "It's not totally my fault, though; I never thought you would be that stupid." He could feel the tears building up, but he continued, his voice coming out strangled. "I'm not worth it, Sam." He gripped the hand in his own even harder than before. It was dangerously cold, and he nervously rubbed circles with his thumb on Sam's palm, unconsciously trying to transfer some of his heat into his brother. "I'm not worth this. I mean, how could you do this to yourself? I can handle myself, Sam. What I can't handle is sitting here looking at you like this. Everything I've done for you over the years and this is how you repay me!" Warm tears were spilling down his face, and he didn't bother to wipe them away. He dropped his head, unable to look at his brother anymore for fear he would lose what little sanity he had left.

He heard John say his name, but ignored him. The second time, his name was whispered, and it took him a few seconds to process the sound of the voice, and to realize that the whisper hadn't originated from the front seat at all. It was then that he noticed the gentle pressure gripping back on the hand holding Sam's. Dean looked up, hardly daring to hope.

"Dean?" The voice whispered again, barely audible against the sounds of the car. Dean leaned closer. "'s that you?" Sam mumbled, his eyes still closed. Up until that point there had been a part of Dean that had been prepared, telling him to be careful. He wasn't sure how much the other Sam had lied about. Maybe he had agreed to this. Dean was going to be on his guard, but all of those thoughts melted away at the sound of that voice.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me." Sam winced at the name, but a tiny smile started on the edge of his lips. Sam moved his head slightly toward the sound of Dean's voice. "Hey, can you open your eyes for me?" He nervously brushed the bangs out of Sam's eyes for about the hundredth time His hair was just so freaking messy, it was impossible to get any of it to stay in place.

Dean could see how much effort the simple task took him, but after about ten seconds Sam's eyelids started to flicker open. Dean squeezed Sam's hand encouragingly. It took him longer for his eyes to fully open, and he visibly cringed. Dean saw him gradually adjust to the light, his unfocused gaze traveling around, looking for something. His eyes finally rested in the general area of Dean's face. He could see Sam struggle to speak.

"You look like shit, man," Sam rasped out. The comment was probably true, but Dean couldn't care less. "Y'know what? I've nev'r seen you cry b'fore. It looks weird." Dean found himself smiling against his will and quickly brushed the tears away.

"Don't get used to it."

Sam's eyes slipped in to focus, and then rapidly back out. "You've got blood all over you." Naturally. It was Sam's, though Sam himself didn't seem to know that. "I've got blood all over me." Dean was starting to get worried. Falling away next, apparently, was Sam's coherency. He was so delirious he probably didn't even realize what was going on. Well, Dean thought, at least he doesn't seem to be in much pain.

That theory went out the window when Sam started to cough. Dean quickly alerted John, who told him to prop Sam up to increase air flow. As he did, Sam's struggle for breath subsided into soft wheezing. Dean shifted him back into his horizontal position.

"Sam, you just have to hold on a bit longer. And try to keep breathing; I really don't want to have to perform mouth-to-mouth again."

Sam, even through his struggle for breath, still managed to roll his eyes. He fought for words as his eyes scanned the interior of the car. "What happened?" he whispered.

"Huh?" Dean asked lamely.

Sam took a deep breath before answering that warranted him another cough. Once he was finished, he spoke. "Did I hurt anybody? 're you 'kay? I just can't—really—rem'mbr much." Sam's words were starting to slur. Dean could see he was slipping in and out of clarity.

"No. I'm fine. And dad, too." He paused. He had to tell Sam this. "Look. I know I haven't exactly been supportive about your— " he struggled for the right words "—abilities. But you don't have to turn into that asshole to feel like what you need to be. You don't have to be afraid of this. I'm not going to let it happen to you. If I have to kick your ass to knock some sense into you I will. This is not the answer."

"I didn't mean—I felt fine. I felt great. It wasn't that bad."

"Sam, do you want me to kick the shit out of you? 'Cause you know me, I will."

Sam's mood quickly changed, and his eyes were filled with urgency. "I couldn't fight it, Dean. I couldn't." Dean was already lost. Was he apologizing for what he had just said? Sam was leaping from subject to subject, switching from personality to personality. If Dean had hoped it would become more understandable as Sam went on he was disappointed. Sam's voice was quick and breathless like he was hyperventilating and he looked preoccupied with something else entirely. "I can't…explain. My mind—" He struggled for the right words. "—something they did to me, I still feel it." Sam's voice was lowering, making it harder for Dean to pick up what he was saying, and even then it was apparent Sam was starting to lose concentration. "I can't control it. I wasn't afraid, I didn't have to be. I don't know, I feel—like it was finally what I wanted. I keep feeling like I want to go back, but I just can't remember what was wrong about it."

"Maybe because you turned into the Dark Lord of the Sith…" Dean suggested, letting his voice trail off. Sam ignored him.

"Everything felts like it was my decision—it was my decision." He gently shook his head, a look of despairing confusion on his face. "I don't know, I'm confused." Sam's grip of Dean's hand tightened and for a moment he looked totally coherent. "But I could feel it, Dean— whatever it was that caused me to do this. It felt familiar—there's no way to get rid of it—it is part of me. No matter what, it'll always be there." The urgency left his eyes, replaced with more exhaustion, confusion, and fear than Dean had ever seen his brother burdened with. "What's wrong with me, Dean?" Sam closed his eyes, and for one heart-stopping moment, Dean couldn't see him breathing. But he could finally, after a few moments, see Sam's eyes, full of question. Dean was still in shock at the randomness and confusion of Sam's confession.

"I don't know, Sammy." Dean was scared. He had no experience with matters like this. Sam looked like he was slipping in between his normal self and the power-hungry asshole. One thing was for sure: Somebody had seriously f--ked with his brother's mind.

The pain looked like it was really setting in now. Sam looked determined, though, to not let it show. But years of being a big brother had taught Dean a lot. Including how to know when Sam was in pain. His eyes were changing every few seconds. He was fighting something inside himself and that's all Dean knew. He needed to turn to someone for answers.

"What did they do to him? What the hell did they do to make him like this?" He turned around, making sure beforehand that Sam would be alright while he was gone, to see Deena staring at him, a look of pure and utter confusion plastered on her face.

"I've never sensed anything like this. I don't know. Whatever it is, he's fighting it." She paused, concentrating. "It's afraid, though. It's afraid Sam will die, and it along with him."

"What? Rewind a few seconds. He told me it didn't matter whether Sam died or not. That's why he did this in the first place."

"Yes, that's what should have happened." Dean was going to ask how that was possible when she cut him off. "There are two possible answers to your fist question. One is that it went wrong. It wasn't able to separate itself fully from Sam for some reason. But it can't gain control of him because he's fighting. The next is that he lied, and that he needs you to save Sam because he wasn't able with his abilities at that time to hold on much longer. Either way, if Sam dies it does too. That's the one thing I'm sure about."

"So that's your specialty? Telling when people are going to die?"

"No. I just get vibes from people. I know that it's scared of death. I sense regret for doing this in the first place. I sense fear from Sam, and resistance, and a lot of confusion. They've really screwed him up. But he's doing something—Sam. He's reached some sort of decision. His signature is changing; he's switching between the two, though your Sam is the one in control."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't really know."

"What exactly is going on?" He gestured to Sam. "Was he possessed or what?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"How about a best guess?"

"I don't know." Dean was getting really tired of hearing 'I don't know'.

"Can you at least freaking try?"

She took a deep breath, concentrating. She spoke in a rushed tone with her eyes closed. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with him. Something in him, it's twisting him, changing him. But it matched part of his signature, like it is a part of him, it always has been. Not an entire separate consciousness, just something that influences his judgment. It's like there was some sort of—parasite planted in his mind, waiting dormant, working unnoticeably. Whatever you met back in that hotel room, it was him, there's no doubt about that. He's just…different. His entire life that 'parasite' was applying its changes, but Sam had unconsciously built up a border, keeping those changes from taking place. Normally he shouldn't have been able to do that. He shouldn't have been able to use his powers at all with that parasite in his mind—that's the first thing it takes care of—but he did to protect himself. For some reason he's the only one they've come across that could do that. He can use his powers sometimes when he was stressed enough, another thing he shouldn't be able to do. He's more powerful than they thought. Whatever is in there has, his entire life, been gaining strength. There's no telling whether or not it would have gained control without outside help. The demons, they just helped it along, weakened that invisible border and helped it change him and do its job, changing the way his mind worked. You see, that border weakens when he's in stressful situations. And now that border is damaged permanently. Now he won't be able to get too stressed out without becoming vulnerable."

"That's quite a lot for an 'I don't know,' don't you think?" Deena tried futilely to roll her eyes and glare at Dean at the same time. Dean smiled innocently and she continued her monologue.

"I thought he was dead because I couldn't sense him. I couldn't sense him because his signature changed, and that's never happened. But when the other version left this one to die, it screwed something up big-time. He thought that he could just separate itself, hide itself so that it could somehow use the actual Sam s a shield, so that the actual Sam would bear the worst of the attack. But like I said, it went wrong. So what it's trying to do now is seep back into Sam's consciousness to take control again, but it's only been partly successful."

"And how can he just kill off what remains of Sam? I thought it needed Sam, it controlled through Sam? I still don't understand."

"Well, then, I guess you're a little slow."

"Or maybe you just suck at this."

She opened her mouth to retort, but John cleared his throat from the driver's seat.

"Um, Sam," he reminded.

"Look," Deena said. "Let's just say it's created a whole other side so that it can cope without Sam. Trust me, it's entirely possible."

Dean's brain was officially hurting. "Is there any simpler way you can phrase any of that? A condensed version? CliffsNotes? Psychic Brothers for Dummies?"

"Uh... Not really." She smiled sheepishly.

"Is there any way I can help keep the asshole from taking control?"

"That's almost completely up to Sam, but if you want to help, just talk to him. He's starting to forget who he is a little bit because of it. If he's going to push it back then he has to focus. Just talk to him. That's really all. He's in there, you were just talking to him, but whatever they did to him has done serious damage. Sam's fighting as hard as he can, but because he's fighting a part of himself..." Deena hesitated. Dean knew she was holding something back.

"Dean, be careful. He only partly knows what's going on. He's… I can't really put it into words. He's tired. He's fought for this every day since he left. He doesn't want to fight anymore. And he's not trying to push it away. He can put up the border, but it's like he's letting it down every once in awhile."

"What? Are you saying he wants to go back?"

"No. Somehow he's not letting it control him, but he's letting it in every once in awhile. It's like he wants to keep it close, but not close enough. Oh," realization hit her face. "Dean, be careful, I know why he's not letting go. And I know why—"

"You know what, Deena? I'll just find out anyway." Dean rolled his eyes. If someone would just tell him what the fuck was going on here rather than all this college lecture crap…

"Just tell me if I can get any coherent speech out of him without risking him becoming a total psychopath again."

"I'd say it's pretty safe now. He's calmed down a bit, his thoughts seem clearer. Just don't distract him so much." Deena knew something, but Sam needed him and he couldn't listen to another lecture.

"And keep him awake if you can," John said from the driver's seat. "His head injury is bad enough as it is."

"As if there wasn't enough pressure already…" Dean mumbled. Jesus Christ, he had to keep Sam awake, alive, sane, and fighting. He had only absorbed about half of what Deena had said, possibly less than that.

Dean turned cautiously back to Sam, whose breathing was becoming more labored. "We're on the way to the hospital. I just need you to hold on."

"Don't," Sam muttered, almost like he was hurrying to get it out before Dean stopped him.

"What?" Dean whispered, not trusting his voice. His throat felt dangerously dry.

Sam ignored the comment. His eyes roamed around the car interior. Dean was hoping he was still delirious. "Jesus, I nev'r thought I'd die in a freaking Honda. The Impala, maybe, but—"

"What?" Dean half-yelled in horror. He was pretty sure John heard that, but Sam was lucky he didn't hear what Dean thought he was proposing. Great, he had blown sane, fighting, and possibly alive, too, all within twenty seconds.

He turned around to Deena, raising his eyebrows in the 'was that what you meant?' look. She shrugged guiltily. Dean turned around, exasperated.

"Why the hell are you saying that, Sam? You are not going to die!" Dean was about to have an anxiety attack, he just knew it. "Why are you saying that?" He repeated when Sam didn't answer.

"Because it's the only way," Sam answered simply, his hand squeezing Dean's harder through a wave of pain. He gritted his teeth and continued, though. "It'll nev'r give up 'til I'm dead. This is my only chance."

"Your chance to what?"

"To finally get rid of it for good. If I die it does too."

"So you're letting it in?"

"Only enough so that it can't separate itself. If I just can hold on to it long enough it will die with me."

"You don't have to do this. We can get through this together. I'm not going to let them do that to you ever again." He knew that. He wasn't going to let anyone hurt Sam, not even Sam himself.

"It's too late. It's not what they did. It's what I did." Sam was struggling harder than ever to speak through the pain. His teeth were still gritted, and Dean could barely feel his fingers anymore. He could have been wrong, but Dean thought he saw Sam's eyes darken a shade for a second. "I can't do this. I can't live knowing this thing could take over me any time. I can't fight this off forever. I don't want you to have to go through that. What if I attack someone and can't control it? What if that person is you, or dad? I knew what I was doing, but I couldn't stop. I almost shot you right between the eyes. I would've without even flinching. And I didn't even realize anything was wrong with me 'til then. It made me think that I was doing what I wanted. It's still trying. If I didn't have you with me..."

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"You have no idea what I've done."

"You're right, Sam. I don't know. But I also don't care. Trust me, Sam. I can handle that. But what I can't handle is you dying. You dying because of me." Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Dean, this thing will only die when I do."

"That's not true!"

"Yes, it is," Sam whispered. The truth of the matter was, if anyone knew it was Sam. But there was no way in hell Dean was admitting that.

"Sam, no!" Sam had closed his eyes and his head was starting to loll to the side. Dean's brotherly sixth sense was telling him that he didn't have much time left to talk him out of it.

He turned away for a second. "Dad," he cried in an anguished voice, hoping for some advice, some way out of this.

"I'm driving as fast as I can. Deena says we're almost there. Just keep him awake for as long as you can! Only about two more minutes."

"He's still fighting," Deena informed him. "He may be able to hear you, but he can't answer. He's focusing too much on holding onto it. He really wants to do this, but he's fighting too hard. His body can't handle it. You've got to bring him back if he's going to live through this."

"Great, even more pressure…" Now he had to talk Sam out of suicide within the next two minutes. He didn't notice anybody else helping, by the way. He had to ad-lib.

"Sam, you don't have to do this."

"Please, Dean," Sam whispered. Dean looked directly into Sam's eyes, which were filled with guilt. Yet he was pleading with Dean to let him go. Dean knew that look. It was the same one Sam had given him when he had left with Meg. Oh, hell no, Sam was not getting him with that look. Not now. Not ever.

"Look, holding on to this is killing you. If you're going to make it, you need to let go."

"You just don't get it, do you?" Sam closed his eyes for a few seconds; he looked really tired, but determined, as if he wanted to get something out before he slipped. "Dean, I don't want to make it. I'm going to die, and letting go isn't going to stop it. I'll have died for nothing then. I want to die knowing I'm going down, but I'm taking this bastard with me. I know I've never asked you for this much, but please, just let me do this. If you and dad love me then you'll let me go."

"Sam, can you stop giving me the freaking 'If you love something set it free' speech? Because I have my own version of that saying. It goes like this: If you love something, set it free. If it doesn't come back, you haul its sorry ass back whether it wants to come or not! Got it?"

"I can't do this anymore. I can't. I'm tired and confused. I can't fight this off forever. I can feel it. Part of me is telling me to go back, to just give in. But I can't give in to it, Dean, because then I know I'll never be back. I'll just have to fight it off for the rest of my life. The only way out of this is death. Trust me, it's better than this. And maybe I'll see mom and Jess..."

"Sam, don't." It was too late. Sam was already too far gone to talk coherently.

"Don't leave me, please Dean." Jesus Christ, it would be pretty hard to leave now, given that they were in a car going eighty-five miles per hour. Sam was starting to fade back out. His eyes were beginning to glaze over, his body slackening. Dean felt the blood rushing back into his hands again, the pressure released at last. He leaed over Sam and held his head between his hands, forcing Sam to look him in the eyes. He gently but insistently shook him.

"Sam!" He said, loud enough to bring Sam back far enough to hear what he had to say. "I love you. So does dad. That's why we're _not_ going to let you die. I don't care what you are. I am going to fight for you until the end." Sam's eyelids were beginning to droop, his eyes glazed with fever. "Listen to me!" Dean insisted. "You are not giving up. You give up when I say you can give up!"

"'t's cold in 'ere," Sam observed, voice slurred.

"Sammy, you have to listen to me!" Dean cried. He was getting desperate. "You have to let go and you have to hang in there. For me, okay? Please, we're just a few minutes away. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise. Just let go."

"He doesn't have much time left," Deena was saying from the front seat beside Dean. "You're getting close, he's hesitating, but—"

"Excuse me; I'm trying to talk my brother out of suicide here! Do you mind?"

Dean cursed a few times, but repeated to himself that it probably wasn't the best solution, though it sure would have been the easiest. He took a deep breath and decided to make it up as he went along.

"Sam, come on," he urged, but Sam was already too far gone to hear a lot of what he was saying. His breathing was getting dangerously choked. His hands were cold and he was shivering, though Dean could feel the heat radiating off his forehead from an inch away. "Think about it. You left me, you tried to kill me, and you let them do this to you! I didn't get any choice in that. You owe me big-time. You said if I love you I'll let you go."

The tears were coming again, and for once in his life he didn't care that he was crying openly. Talking was the only thing keeping him from breaking down right there. "If you love me, you won't die on me, and we _will_ get through this together."

"Please, Sammy." He had almost never begged for anything in his entire life, but none of his normal rules applied now. He was desperate, and the words started pouring out of his mouth in no particular order. Once started he couldn't stop. He was practically half-sobbing half-talking. "Please. Don't. I lost everything to this. I can't lose you, too. Not you. Please, just not you. I need you. I love you, Sammy. You're all I have left. You can't leave me like this. This can't be the end. You've still got time left. I never had enough time with you. I need more time.

"Please. I'll do anything, just don't do this. Not you. Not now. I'll stop hunting, I'll drive the freaking VW beetle, I'll let you drive, I'll let you choose the music. But one thing I will never do: I will never forgive you for doing this, I swear."

This time there was nothing to kill, no body to burn. All Dean could do was hold Sam's hand and watch. He felt more helpless than he ever had in his entire life. For a few seconds he saw Sam's eyes clear a bit and focus on Dean. He couldn't understand the look that crossed his face­­­—concentration, despair, pain, fear, exhaustion—but it looked like he was coming to a decision about something. That was, until his eyes closed and his hand slipped from Dean's grasp. Dean checked his wrist for a pulse. It was there, but so frighteningly weak that Dean knew he wouldn't make it much longer. The car skidded to a stop.

"We're here," John announced from the front seat, his voice wavering. He had pulled up right in front. Deena quickly got out of her side and took John's seat. "I'll park the car. Go."

Sam groaned weakly as Dean and John lifted him out of the car. His head lolled limply in the crook of Dean's arm, but Dean heard a mumble and leaned down to listen.

"Well, if you're gonna freaking beg…" The words were barely decipherable, but Dean managed.

"I didn't beg." A raspy chuckle escaped Sam's lips, and Dean got his wish of seeing Sam smile, however small and weak it was.

"Whatever, Jerk."

Dean smiled against his will. "Bitch."

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed! Remember to review! Tell me what moments you liked or didn't like. What do you think is going to happen? Did I get the characterization right? What can I improve upon?**

**God, this chapter even confused me and I'm the writer. I had to write this scene from Sam's point of view just to get it right. I rewrote this like fifty times and I'm still not happy with it. I figured this was the best it was going to get.**

**Again, if you were confused then that's alright. Not everything was explained in-depth because, well, it was an emergency situation and they didn't have time to go into the whole lecture. Plus, I didn't want to explain too much at one time. That wouldn't be fun, now, would it?**

**Okay, I have a question that's been bugging me: What color are Sam's eyes? I've been searching on the internet and answers range from "brown" (which I used) to "blue/green". His pictures make his eyes look more brown, but I'm just not sure and it really pissing me off. I just chose brown because it seemed more Sam-like. (Yes that is a word. I just made it up.) If I find out for sure to the contrary then I'll go back and edit it or something.**

**Bye :D**


	14. Regrets and Goodbyes

**_Chapter 14: Regrets and Goodbyes _**

**Author's Note: (please read) OK, most of you are going to _really _hate me by the (checks) 5th paragraph. I simply ask you to _not _stop reading at that point if it _really_ pisses you off (which it will to most of you). Please bear with me for awhile, and if you have a problem stop reading. I promise you, not all of the next few chapters will be like this.**

Dean was tapping again, and he was fully aware of the annoyed looks John was shooting at him. He didn't really give a shit, though. He was aware that he had every freaking right to be agitated. He had to do something or he would go insane. He was already on a thin wire in that sense.

A tall female doctor with sleek red hair and glasses made her way out to them, a serious look on her face.

"Excuse me, do you have any news about Sam Winchester?" John stood in a flash, but Dean had to test himself before standing. He could still see the pleading look Sam had given him, hear the urgency the doctors had spoken with as he was taken away to surgery and feel Sam's blood on his hands, though he had washed it off long ago. His jacket was another matter; there was a fifty-percent chance it would be ruined. Dean wasn't sure he wanted wear anything that had ever been covered in his brother's blood anyway. All of the images of the past hours flashed before his eyes uncontrollably. It was like being stuck in a nightmare.

That feeling increased as he saw the look on the doctor's face. She had that sympathetic, caring look that could only mean one thing.

"I'm sorry," she said in what was supposedly a comforting tone, but only succeeded in increasing Dean's horror. He knew that tone. "We did all we could, but the damage and blood loss was just too great… I'm so sorry."

_This is not happening. This is not happening. _

"He's…" John started, his voice weaker than Dean had ever heard. Dean himself was incapable of speech at this point. He felt like he was going to vomit his intestines up and clenched his jaw shut just in case.

"There was nothing we could do."

"What happened?"

"We honestly don't know. He should have been able to survive it, and we thought he was going to make it. He was doing well, he was stable, but when we were bringing him back from surgery we had a Code Blue. We lost a heartbeat and his breathing stopped. We couldn't revive him. His body just shut down."

"Where is he?" John asked.

"We're keeping him in one of the rooms down by Intensive Care until we can…"

Dean knew what she was going to say, and he tuned out the rest of her sentence. He couldn't think straight. His entire mind revolved around those words she had spoken.

_There was nothing we could do. _

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Not after all they'd been through.

"…see him?" John was saying.

"I don't know. Are you sure you can handle it?" Out of the corner of his eye he could see her look pointedly at Dean for John's benefit.

"Please," John asked. "Just a few minutes. We need to."

"Just wait here for a moment. I'll see if there's a place where we can let you…" Dean was tuning her out again. His thoughts were on a one-way road, and he couldn't be brought out of them.

"Dean?" John whispered.

"Yeah," he choked out.

"Are you alright?" Dean could see his father's face in front of him, could feel his hands on his shoulders. John was paler than Dean had ever seen him, his eyes curiously watery. The hands on his shoulders were trembling.

Dean laughed wryly, and it came out sounding more like a choking squirrel. "Am I alright? What do you think, dad?" For some reason, he was mad. "My baby brother is _dead_," he hissed. John flinched like Dean had slapped him.

"Dean, I understand. You're in shock. But we have to stay calm."

"Why? If I have _ever _had a right _not _to be calm, this is it."

John didn't respond. Dean tried in the next few moments to calm himself down, though he knew he would lose it as soon as he stepped in that room.

Dean had to admit that he didn't truly believe it until he saw it with his own eyes.

He was unaware of his surroundings. Sam could have been asleep for all Dean knew. Well, except for the lack of breathing and a heartbeat. He was paler than Dean had ever seen, his hair was still dirty and plastered to his forehead with blood and sweat. He looked peaceful, like he had died relatively happy, though Dean knew that was impossible. He had been alone, fighting off the remains of demon mind-control, waiting to die.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. He wanted desperately to, but sheer horror kept them plastered to his baby brother's body. He could see in his peripheral vision that John was at Sam's side, stroking his hair and holding his hand, more affection than Dean had ever seen him give to anyone, though it was the least he could do given Sam was dead. But for the first time Dean saw his father crying, tears evenly flowing down his face. He looked like he was talking to Sam, but it was too low for Dean to hear. Dean's own eyes were dry; he was in too much shock to feel anything yet.

"I can't believe he did it," Dean whispered in numb disbelief.

"What?" John asked, looking up from his youngest son's face. Dean stepped forward, hearing his boots hit the ground as if from far away. He could barely bring himself to move forward anymore. The closer he got the more details popped out at him, proving that he had to face it. Sam was definitely dead. His lips were tinged with blue, and he gave off none of the warmth Sam had always exuded no matter what situation.

"He asked in the car for me to let him go. He wanted me to let him die. He said it was the only way he wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Dean, he didn't want to die. You know—"

"I know he didn't _want _to! But he sure as hell thought he had to!" And suddenly there was anger, filling in the cavity where the emptiness of feeling had been. He was almost glad to be able to feel _something. _Dean was pissed off, more than he had been in his entire life. He was mad at everything, everybody. He was mad at the Demon for starting this. He was mad at Meg for giving Sam that offer; he knew if it hadn't included him and John then Sam would have fought with all he had. He was mad at himself for not stopping Sam in the first place and not letting him say goodbye. And he was mad at Sam himself, for leaving him. For wanting to die. "I told him. I told him it wasn't worth it."

"I know it doesn't make sense. But we don't know what he went through, what he was going through. He was in pain, Dean. And he didn't want us to go through what he would have done to us."

"That doesn't give him a reason to die! For him to leave me! Us! How could anything he could have done to us be worse than this? How could _anything_ be worse than him doing this to us? Than making us stand here looking at his dead body?" Still no tears. Just anger.

"Dean, this wasn't his fault. He made his choice. There wasn't anything we could have done. You need to calm down. Anger isn't helping this, and you shouldn't blame him."

"Look, I'm going to handle this the way I handle it!"

"You're just handling this badly is all I'm saying."

"I'm handling this badly?" Dean's voice was starting to fill with venom. His anger was unfocused, aimed at everyone and everything. "How are you handling this so fucking well? Your son is dead and you're just standing there, telling me to calm down! What the hell is wrong with you?" Dean could see his words hit home as John flinched. Dean didn't care that he had hurt his father. He didn't care about anything anymore. For the first time, he didn't care about what his father thought of him.

"I care, Dean. He's my youngest son, my baby. Sammy." John's voice cracked on the last few words. Dean tried to catch his eye, but John was staring at Sam's face again. Dean saw all the emotions that John had held back his entire life spilling out onto the features of his face. "Don't tell me that I don't care every bit as much as you do. That I don't love him as much as you do. I'm not saying that you can't be upset. I'm just saying that you can't let it destroy you. I lost the person I loved most, your mom, and I almost didn't make it. I never wanted you to have to go through that. I know it won't do much good. I'm just trying the best I can." John looked up into Dean's eyes, and after a few seconds he had to look away.

Dean couldn't break down now. He couldn't. It was like something in his coding was keeping him from crying. He couldn't feel anything anymore. Even the anger was ebbing away against his will as he took a deep breath. Being angry was better than this absence he felt. For awhile the rage had been so intense that it had temporarily filled the void where Sam had been. But now all he had left was a dull feeling of regret in the back of his mind for all the things he had never said and done. He would have given anything to go back to that night in the car after Sam had gotten his vision.

_Dean saw Sam look over at him, an unknown emotion playing on his face. He bit his lip, looking like he was debating whether or not to say something. _

"_Look, Dean. If something happens, I want you to know—" Sam started, the words pouring out nervously. Dean could tell he was leaving something out. _

"_Oh my god, Sam! I knew it! Didn't we already have this conversation last night? Nothing's going to happen to you, alright? Not while I'm there! And as for me? You also had a vision that Max shot me, remember? I had my trusty psychic geekboy with me and I'm here right now, aren't I?"_

"_But Dean—"_

"_I don't want to hear it, Sam." Sam didn't try to speak again. He shook his head sadly, looked over at Dean once more, and shut up._

Sam was going to say goodbye. He knew those were his last moments with his brother. He knew he wasn't going to see him again. And Dean had just rebuffed him.

Something occurred to Dean. How much had Sam seen in his vision? Had he known from that moment in the car on that he was going to die? That was a thought Dean didn't want to continue. If he had, then the proper thing to do would have been to say "Dean, for once in your life will you shut the hell up? I need to fucking talk to you!" That would have gotten Dean's attention. Sam was perfectly allowed to tell Dean to shut up if he had seen himself die.

Would he have told Dean? Would he have let Dean talk him out of _still_ taking the offer, even though he knew it would lead to his death? Probably not, but Dean knew ways he could have stopped him, even if Sam fought. Dean would have knocked him unconscious and thrown him in the trunk if it would have saved his life.

_Jesus, Dean, _he thought to himself. _You're definitely getting the Brother of the Year Award. You got his girlfriend killed, you never told him that you loved him, you brought him back into this life, you never let him give you the chance to talk him out of sacrificing himself, and you weren't even with him when he died._

"I promised him," Dean said in an emotionless whisper. His voice could handle whispering and yelling; anything in between sounded choked. He felt like he had to explain why he was acting like this. John looked up at him in confusion. "I promised him that as long as I was around nothing bad was going to happen to him."

"You can't control the future, Dean," John muttered.

"Ever since we were kids I've always been able to help him, to have his back, to make sure that nothing ever had the chance to get at him. But not this time. I could have done something, I should have done something." He couldn't put much conviction into his words. His emotional battery was spent.

"There wasn't anything you could have done."

"Bullshit," he muttered, and weakly shook his head. "If I hadn't let him go in the first place, then—"

"Dean this was his choice."

"Don't you dare blame this on him." John looked exasperated. Dean knew he was being frustratingly hypocritical, but he didn't care.

"I'm not _blaming _anyone but the Demon, Meg, and all the other sons-of-bitches that did this to him!" John looked down at Sam, still stroking his hair lovingly, and Dean saw the need for vengeance renewed. And for once, Dean was with him all the way. He had only been four when Mary had died and he hadn't known Jess. He understood Sam and John's need for revenge and had followed whole-heartedly except for those rare times when they had both seemed suicidal, but he had never experienced the full weight of what this thing could do to his family until now. Looking down at Sam, he finally understood. He owed this to Sam. For what he had done to him. It was the least he could do. "Do not blame yourself for this," John muttered, his attention still on Sam.

Dean felt the anger bubbling up inside him again, his emergency battery kicking in. This time it was fully directed at himself. "Well, I'm _going_ to freaking blame myself, alright. I'm his big brother, I was supposed to _take care_ of him, _protect _him, not get him killed! How has anything I've done helped him? He died alone. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't fight for him. There was nothing I could do!" Now all of the other emotions were breaking to the surface, and he did everything to force them down again. It didn't work. Dean was going to break down any second. The self-loathing and guilt were the only things keeping him from that and he wanted to avoid it by any means necessary.

"He did not die alone. He died with you. His last conscious moments were in that car." Dean winced. His last words to Sam involved the word 'bitch.' It seemed so insignificant now, and he wished he had said words that meant something, not a smartass comment.

"And he didn't die for nothing. We loved him and he loved us. You fought for him. You were the reason he survived long enough to make it here in the first place. Or worse, if you hadn't been there he would have become that thing again. You kept him here. You helped him fight so that he could die without knowing he was going to become a monster. It's not your fault. You _did_ protect him, Dean."

"Then why is he _dead_?" His voice cracked on the last word. And that was it. Suddenly it sunk in and every emotion he was trying to suppress hit him like a ton of bricks, the dam breaking. Sam was dead. He was dead, and he wasn't coming back.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. The grief was suffocating, sapping the power out of him. His legs would no longer support his body, and he sunk to the ground, finally dropping his head to his hands to banish the sight of his little brother's dead body. He was trembling from head to foot, sobs wracking his entire body, not caring what he looked like or what people thought of him. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. He had failed the one job he had deemed as the most important of his life. He had failed Sam as a big brother.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry," he gasped. He felt John next to him, pulling him into a hug, the like of which he hadn't gotten since he was four years old. He buried his face in his father's jacket, as if by covering his eyes he could stop the images of his brother.

He had been in the hospital when Sam was born and when he had died. He had seen him in his first hours of life and in his last moments before death. He was the one who noticed when he had taken his first steps, the one that had given him the nickname Sammy, and the one who drove him to school all throughout high school, even when he himself had graduated. The one who taught him how to drive, though he assured Sam he would never get the chance anyway. The one who gave him advice on how to ask a girl out for the first time when he was in sixth grade. The one that had taught Sam the best way to defend himself from the bullies at school and how to use his freakish height to his advantage. (Nobody bothered Sam again after he took down five of them in two minutes.)

Dean remembered all of the years when Sam was in college, years he could have spent with him. All of that training, all of those years growing to love Sam came down to nothing. It seemed that no matter what he did, whenever he needed something the most it was yanked out from underneath him. And he had never needed something as much as he needed Sam right now. But it was pointless to hope. It hadn't been when Sam was simply off in college, but he couldn't just walk into wherever Sam was now and haul his ass out. He had broken his motto.

He was breaking down, gasping for breath, feeling as if his entire world was crashing down, crushing him. His brother, one of the only things in his world that was worth living for, was dead, and he couldn't even go to the funeral because someone was bound to recognize him and he would get arrested. Dean hated fucking Shapeshifters. Even after the bastard died, it wouldn't even let Dean have the closure of his brother's funeral.

"What did you tell him?" Dean asked, his voice strangled against the fabric of John's jacket. "What were you saying to him?" John hesitated, and then began to speak, his arms still around Dean, his own voice teary. He realized his father was probably in as much pain as he was.

"We can talk about this later. It was kind of between him and me. Mainly I told him that I was sorry." With a wave of anguish Dean realized this was probably the last time they would all be together in the same room.

And for the first time, Dean and his father cried together. They both allowed themselves to break down in each other's company, trying to make up for the loss they felt by holding on to the little they had left with all the strength they could muster. Dean somehow knew that this moment would be gone soon, both of the remaining Winchesters back to the stony surfaces they always presented in public. It would be revenge from then on. Hunt down the Demon, Meg, and all the rest of them one by one and make them pay for taking their loved ones from them. Dean knew they would. The hole in his heart where Sam had been had altered his whole state of mind. Where he had hesitated before he would be ruthless. Where there had been love there would be a cold resolve. What was the point of trying to be a smart-ass or a good protector when there wasn't anybody to appreciate it?

These were the last moments of the Winchester Trio and The Artist Formerly Known as Dean. The last time they would ever all three be in the same room together. The last time Dean would ever let his emotions get the better of him. The last time he and his father would cry openly in each other's presence.

Dean tried to think of anything else, but it seemed disrespectful not to think of Sam in these last moments he had with him.

"_The only way out of this is death. Trust me, it's better than this." _Maybe it was. But Dean was essentially a selfish creature. He would never forgive Sam for doing this, leaving him.

"_Please, just let me do this. If you and dad love me then you'll let me go" _Dean loved him more than life itself. More, even, than the Impala, which he had wrecked because of Sam. Dean would gladly sacrifice himself for Sam. That was the way it worked. He was the older brother; it was his job, his civic duty. Sam was the younger brother, the little brother, the baby brother. It was his job to be saved by the older brother, Dean. That was the way things worked. Sam had violated Sibling Law.

"_You told me mom and Jess weren't coming back. I couldn't save them. It was too late. It's not too late now, Dean. You said revenge wasn't worth dying for. You are." _Dean sobbed even harder. He wanted to die if this was what his life would be like. Empty. He would forever be without anyone but his father, traveling around hunting ghosts. Nobody to insult his music or to play pranks on; he highly doubted John would tolerate itching powder in his pants.

The revenge list was growing longer. Mary. Jess. And now Sam.

"_You said revenge wasn't worth dying for. You are." _

"I'm not, Sam," he choked out. "I'm not." He pulled away from his father and hauled himself off the floor. He needed to see Sam before he lost him forever, and when he did see him he almost cried out.

His eyes were open.

And they were black.

Suddenly, he found himself thrown across the room, pinned to the wall next to John, who had also been moved against his will.

"How touching. I never thought you cared so much." It was like a scene out of a horror movie. Dean was too shocked for his mind to process what was happening. The first thing that came to his mind was _Oh, shit_. The next was that Deena had been wrong. Sam had let himself die, had stopped fighting death for nothing. And then it hit Dean.

She hadn't been wrong. Dean had talked Sam out of it, had promised Sam he wouldn't die. He had convinced Sam to let go. And Sam had listened to him, had trusted him. But Sam had been right to not let go. He had been fighting for god knows how long to make sure his death meant something and then Dean came along and blew what little hope was left for Sam to die in peace. It was Dean's fault. Shit, this was the last thing he needed.

"Do you know how great it is to be free of that? No hesitation, no pity. It's finally gone. Now I'm free." Sam sat up in his bed, and Dean was startling to see that he had indeed gained back some of his color. He looked way less—well, dead.

Dean felt himself released from Sam's hold, but as soon as he started to walk forward more than a foot, an unseen force knocked him backward like a kick in the chest. He noticed John was in a similar situation, still able to move, but not able to get his body through the invisible line either Sam or the girl was holding up.

Sam, ignoring Dean and John altogether, carefully peeled off the gauze wrapped around his mid-section. The injuries were gone, and smooth new skin covered the area.

"Nice job," said a voice from the doorway. "Not even a scar this time." Dean and John turned their heads at almost the exact same time. A petite girl with shoulder-length, uneven raven hair and dark eyes leaned casually against the doorframe. She wore entirely black clothing and an ever-growing smirk. Dean recognized her as the girl from the alley. Sam smiled as he saw her, and swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed, looking relieved that he was still wearing his own pants and not the weird hospital ones.

"I'm getting better now that it's finally gone. Man, I don't know why I ever doubted not doing this before."

"Be careful," she warned, covering the distance between herself and Sam smoothly in only a few strides. "Remember what he said. It'll be a little rocky at first." Sam's smile widened.

"I'm fine," he insisted, standing up without the least show of weakness. He leaned down and kissed her. "See, fine." She kissed him back and after a few moments Dean was sure he saw some tongue somewhere in there.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, this is just wonderful. Do I have to stand here until you guys are done? After awhile this is going to get a little bit disgusting."

Sam pulled away, and his eyes had darkened a shade. They glinted maliciously in the dark.

"I'll take care of this, Nora," he said, addressing the girl. "Just make sure they don't get far. I've got to focus on something else." The girl, Nora, nodded.

"You were dead," Dean said.

"I was. But let us just say I have a sort of 'backup plan.'" He created little quotation marks in the air. "I'm not good at explaining these things, but you seem curious and I'll try my best. It's in my programming to, when my body is about to die—let's say something went wrong and I couldn't use my powers—take everything I need for survival and 'evacuate.' I know, you don't understand, you usually don't. In other words, in an emergency situation I split my soul into two dual personalities. What you're seeing now is one, all the good traits—"

"Bullshit."

"The one that went out the windowwas the one with all the good thoughts and memories, the nice feelings and all that shit that I don't need anymore. This side—me—is made up of all the _useful_ traits. All the powers and control are with me. In a way, it's sort of like spring cleaning."

"How did you not die too?"

"The one in the body at the time of death dies with the body. I just stepped aside. In the car I was fighting letting the two halves separate because I was scared. But then you came along and talked me out of it. You have no idea how much you did for me.

"I have to thank you, Dean," Sam continued. "Without you, I'd be just as dead as Sammy. Thanks for giving me a chance."

"Go to hell."

"I'm already there."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dude, Meg used that exact line. Can't you come up with some original material for once?"

"This coming from you?"

"Nice, smartass."

"Dean, you gave up the right to call _anyone _a smartass a _long _time ago." He half-smiled in a mocking way. Dean grinned sourly back.

"Why, thank you," he said.

"Pretty nice for a guy who five minutes ago was sobbing like a five-year-old."

"Pretty nice for someone who was dead five minutes ago. I'd warn your little girlfriend over there she might be getting into some freaky shit with dating a corpse. Unless she's into stuff like that…" Sam's eyes narrowed, but he did his best to ignore the comment.

"You said in the car you wished you had more time. Well, here I am. Anything you want to say?"

"How about 'I hope you burn in hell for what you've done'?"

"Well, I think the former Sammy is taking care of that for the both of us, don't you think?" For the millionth time in the past twenty-four hours something snapped inside Dean. Ignoring John's warning shout, he lunged at Sam with the full intent of throttling him. The girl behind Sam moved a bit in reflex. Sam's brow was furrowed in concentration as he lifted his hand inhumanly fast. After a slight flick of his wrist Dean flew back to the wall with agonizing, breath-taking force.

"Violence isn't the answer, Dean." Dean was gasping every curse word he knew at this asshole. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a few bruised ribs after that. Sam turned to John, a whole new smile on his face, the like of which Dean had never seen. The girl still stood facing Dean When he tried to stand up she nodded her head and an unseen force shoved him back, so he was stuck sitting down, pinned to the wall. He mouthed the word 'bitch' at her while Sam and John stared each other down.

She smiled sweetly, waved, and replied, "How's your car, smartass?" He shot her the middle finger.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Hey, dad," Sam greeted coolly, stepping up to John so they were almost nose to nose, which was near impossible given Sam's height. "Long time, no bitch." Somehow, even in this setting, he managed to look threatening. John just glared back. "By the way, I forgive you. Somewhere, deep down in my heart—"

"What heart would that be?" Dean asked, inserting a bit of genuine curiosity into his voice. "The one you ripped out of the chest of the little old lady or the mechanical one they fit into you after you fell into the pit of hot magma?"

"Oh, come on," Sam said. "Give me a break. I have a heart." John and Dean both snorted at the exact same time. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"You killed my son," John hissed.

"I _am_ your son," Sam replied, his voice filled with venom. "And you know what? You've pissed me off enough. As of now, I'm your only son."

"No!" John yelled, panic etched into every inch of his face.

Had he been ready, prepared for a fight and not so caught off-guard, Dean might have been able to dodge out of the way. But disbelief muddled his mind. He saw the blood, felt the pain, but he was too numb with shock to realize what had happened. He was too stunned to even realize what it was that hit him.

"In the words of AC/DC, 'if you want blood,'" Sam started. Dean's world was turning, fading. Sam looked directly into Dean's eyes, pitiless and cold.

"'You've got it.'" His body was going slack, sliding down the wall all the way, and his vision was blurring.

"You're right, Dean. You're _not _worth it."

Someone was calling his name, and in the corner of his mind he recognized his father's voice. It was worried, upset, but he couldn't remember why. He was sliding down the wall, blood flowing out from the wound in his stomach and through his fingers. He saw Sam staring at him—coldly impartial as he watched his brother die before him—as he let his eyes slide closed, too tired to keep them open. He was tired, he wanted to sleep, but the voice called to him again, already seeming far away.

"Dean! Come on, Dean!" Sam was talking over John but Dean could only focus on one at a time. He had lost all feeling in his body and the voices were sounding more like they were coming to him from the other end of a tunnel. The darkness was reaching beyond just the shade his eyelids provided. He opened his eyes to blackness. It panicked him at first, but then he found he just didn't care.

If this was what dying felt like, Dean wasn't sure he blamed Sam. It wasn't painful or anything. It was relieving, peaceful almost. He could barely think, and through the haze he wondered if he would see Sam or if he had been beyond killed. Destroyed totally because his soul had been connected to this one. Which meant that even if there was an afterlife there was only a fifty percent chance he would ever see Sam again. Not an appealing prospect, but he really didn't have much choice in that matter now.

From the other end of the tunnel he heard sounds of a scuffle. A shot rang out, and a body hit the ground, though whose he didn't know.

"Dean! C'mon. You have to open your eyes! Come on! Wake up! I need you to open your eyes for me!" He tried, he really did, but he was just too tired to listen.

**Author's Note: DON'T KILL ME! Okay, I'm preparing for all the people that are going to hate me after this. **

**So, in your reviews I probably shouldn't ask you what you liked and didn't like, since I can probably guess what you didn't like. **

**So instead I'll ask what you think happened. That last part was supposed to be a little vague. So, what happened to Dean? What happened to Sam? What happened to John? Are they all dead? (Okay, little clue: if I killed _all_ of them, there would be no main characters, therefore no plot. And John alone isn't much fun. So _at least _one person is not dead and is going to survive intact, though it doesn't seem that way. How did they survive? Guess.) Next chapter will take place almost directly after this one left off, but from someone else's point of view.**

**pizzapixie, in your review of Chapter 12 you said 'I'd hate to see what a big cliffhanger is to you!' Well…**

**Tell me in your REVIEW (yay!) what you think is going to happen. At least some of you are _bound_ to get it right. Come on; bring on your suggestions/theories. **

**Oh, and if you have any questions or anything about the events in this story, include it in your review and I'll try to explain it better either by responding to your review or including it at the beginning of next chapter.**


	15. That's Life, This Is Death

**_Chapter 15: That's Life, This Is Death_**

**Disclaimer: You know the routine by now.**

**Thank you to all the people who reviewed. I got more reviews for last chapter than any other. **

**Carocali- In response to the Deena question: it will be explained. **

**Scott Andrei- Cool. I got internet-slapped. That's a first. **

**Hershey- You knew what? **

**Katrin Van Helsing- First of all, unless I'm wrong—and I'm not—I believe I killed _both_ of them. And second of all, I have to disagree with you. I believe Dean is very hot, but Sam beats him. It's very close, but that's just my opinion. **

**falsememorydamnpixies- Not exactly… **

**All the people who called me evil- Why thank you. **

**All the people that said they hate me- I warned you **

**All the people that are totally confused- Yay! You should start a club. I'm the writer and I'm starting to get confused. You will get some info, but not everything all at once. That wouldn't be fun, and that's not how it works in the show either. I hate writing exposition chapters.**

**Megan- Well, I don't want to be responsible for anybody's death…So here you are. **

_I did it. I finally, actually did it. _

Sam watched the light leave his brother's eyes as he stood over his father. It was too like the situation two weeks ago not to recognize. But he had been weak back then, not able to bring himself to do what was needed, like he had now. Dean would just stand in the way.

John tried vainly to get to his oldest son, wincing as Nora shoved him back. "Dean! Come on, Dean!" Dean didn't respond, didn't make any sound whatsoever. Sam stood unflinchingly.

"How could you do that?" John whispered, his voice strangled. "To your own brother?"

"It's pretty easy actually," he replied, striding over to Dean and squatting down beside him. "Eventually the blood loss will take its toll, his organs will shut down, and he'll die. If you have any last words for him, I'd suggest you say them now."

"Sam, please," John said. Sam swerved around exasperatedly to face him.

"Do mine ears deceive me?" He asked sarcastically, standing up. "Is the impenetrable John Winchester actually using the word 'please'?"

"Sammy—"

"If you don't want to end up just like Dean over here you won't refer to me by that idiotic nickname."

"You have to help him. He's going to die."

"Really? You know, somehow I think that was kind of the point."

"I don't care what you do to me. Just please, help him." Sam paused a second.

"You know what? I'll do you one last favor." He turned to Nora. "Do you mind helping me out a bit?" Dean was already by the door, so it wasn't that hard for her to shove him outside the room. Doctors were immediately rushing toward him and the room, but the door shut in their faces. Sam helped Nora with the limited powers he had in his weakened state to blockade the entrance.

"There," he said, taking a deep breath to stop the sudden lightheadedness. "Now we're even. For all those years you pretended like you cared about me like a father does for a son. He has a chance now. Not a big one, I'll admit, but I don't really care. So now we can continue our little chat without any distractions." John's eyes held more than a trace of controlled fear. For Dean, Sam knew. Not for himself and sure as hell not for Sam.

"If you're in there—"

"It's too late, dad. I don't have to listen to you. I'm not a kid anymore and I can make my own decisions."

"I'm trying to help you."

"No, you're not. You just want both of your little soldiers back like the old days."

"That's not true. I love you." Sam was unaffected by the words. He rolled his eyes. It was a classic move from a desperate player. Always put all of your cards into the game.

"What do you want me to say?" John didn't look like he knew how to respond. "Do you want me to break down, fall into your arms and sob like a baby, asking forgiveness for what I've done?" He shook his head. "I don't think so. I've come too far to go back now."

John didn't know the full extent of what he meant by the comment. Dean's predicament was muddling his thoughts. Sam knew he probably wouldn't last long. He was almost dead when the doctors had gotten to him. Sam didn't feel regret, or pity, or sadness, or any of the emotions that should have accompanied the death of the person he once loved more than anything. He couldn't feel any emotions; he didn't care about any of the things that had once meant everything to him. He felt less human, and more like a monster, a demon.

And he liked it. He liked not having to think about everything and just act on pure instinct. His world was cold, his thoughts pure and clear, not interfered with by other people. He didn't have to care about protecting the people around him or staying strong and worrying about expressing his feelings. He didn't have any feelings he needed to express. Not anymore.

Everyone and everything around him was expendable. Even Nora he could kill in a heartbeat and without even flinching, though he had no reason to. He knew his old self would have been scared of this new life, but now he realized it was stupid to think in that frame of mind.

The person he was had been merely afraid of change, not caring whether good or bad. He now realized that he could live and accept who he was, not have to try to blend in and be 'normal'. He would never be normal as long as he lived. Once he had accepted that fact, it made all of the new changes so much easier to live with.

Hell, he could do more than _live with it_. He loved it. And if his father and Dean were going to get in the way and try to make him something he wasn't, he was going to fight them with everything he had. Every power, every ounce of strength, every bit of cold resistance and years of pent-up anger was headed their way.

"Sam, I'm your family."

"Really? It sure as hell didn't seem like it most of the time."

"I don't—"

"I never was a human being to you. I was at best a soldier, at worst a dog, following you around, expected to follow orders, without a mind of my own. Did you ever care? Did you ever care about what I was going through? I wanted to go to college and you wanted me to stay. Of course, I was expected to do what you wanted, not what I wanted. When I didn't, you told me to leave. You kicked me out of the family; you disowned me. You told me to stay gone, and now you suddenly want me back?"

"That's not what it was like."

"Maybe you just didn't pay attention because you just didn't care."

"You're one of the most important things in my life."

"I'm number three. Behind revenge and Dean. I'm sorry, dad. I'm sorry I couldn't be the other Golden Boy of the family. I'm not Dean. I'm not _perfect_ little Dean."

"Sam, this isn't you."

"Why does everybody keep saying that?" He hissed. "You have no idea who I am._ I_ never even knew who I was. Not until now. This is who I am. And you can either accept that or not. You can side with Dean or side with me."

John gazed at Sam with a look he recognized as a mix of pity and grief. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"Save your pity, dad. I don't need it." There was something else, though, in that gaze. Using his newfound powers, which were weaker than usual, much weaker, Sam prodded into John's intentions.

A second too late.

"Shit," he muttered.

It all happened within a split three seconds. Sam tried to gain the mental ability to either raise something in defense or pin John down, blocking his mobility. Nora tensed beside him, also sensing something, but she was useless. She couldn't do anything; her own abilities were horribly limited. That was what happened when someone was merely possessed, with no natural ability.

But John didn't hesitate in the time that Sam required to use his powers in his recovering state. Sam knew he should have told Nora to keep their mobility at a minimum, but he didn't have the time, given that he had been, in most senses of the word, dead. John was quick, so quick Sam barely even realized he had hit his mark perfectly.

John pulled out the Colt out, took aim, and shot, all within those three seconds, fast, as if he had to do it as hastily as possible or he would lose his nerve. People outside yelled from the gunshot, but he didn't care. He had more pressing issues to deal with. No matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn't heal the wound. The blood still ran from his abdomen uncontrollably. He merely stood in shock for a few seconds, staring down his father. Even in his last moments he wasn't going to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

He wasn't scared. Not of Dean, of John, of death. Not of anything. Not anymore. He accepted what was going to happen to him with no regrets.

The bullet was taking its toll now, draining the energy from his body. It didn't hurt, just tingled a bit. His entire body was relaxing, his mind was growing hazy. He was too tired to stand anymore, and barely let out a tiny "oh" before falling back into the hospital bed and sliding to the floor.

Nora had just stood there in shock. Before she got a chance to get her gun out she was on the floor, unconscious. Great. His father spared her life but not his. He understood the reasoning perfectly, though. Nora was savable, but not Sam. In John's eyes he was a lost cause. His father had disowned him.

Worse than that, he had actually _shot_ him.

The sounds and sights were blurring around him, but he clearly saw John's face, staring at him. He had never seen his father's eyes filled with such grief. For a second, he half-wished he could feel some sort of emotion.

"I'm sorry," John said, the hands at his sides still shaking.

Sam finally realized. It had been a tradeoff. He got control and all the things he needed to live with himself. But they had gotten his soul. The thing that had made him Sam Winchester. He had killed off his last chance in that car. He didn't know what that made him anymore. He felt the exact same way he had felt for the past two weeks.

"Sammy," came his father's voice. He couldn't think any good thoughts about him. He couldn't feel warm with the memories of the few good times they had together. Even the childhood memories, back when he and Dean were still little and they had been a family were inaccessible by any other part of his mind than the one filled with hatred. "I tried. Dean and I tried to save you. I'm sorry, Sammy. I had to do this. For you. I couldn't let you live like that. I couldn't. You didn't want to live like that. You said you'd rather die." Sam wanted to punch him, but he could barely lift a finger. Wasn't somebody allowed to change their mind these days?

John really was upset enough to kill his own son. Worse, he had actually wasted a bullet on him.

_Jesus, _Sam thought _that's probably the most consideration he's ever shown me. Either that or I did something to really piss him off._

It was probably because he had killed Dean or something. Of course. It was always for the good little soldier. Perfect Dean. This was the only thing that made Sam special, that made him stand out from Dean. The only thing he could beat Dean in. But John thought it was a curse. John thought that Sam himself was a curse.

"I was never good enough for you," he forced out, his lips numb, trying to put as much venom into his voice as possible. He wanted to make sure his last moments stuck with John for the rest of his short, pathetic life. "Everything I did was never enough. You always hated me.You just finally had an excuse to get rid of me." John's knees hit the floor beside him, and Sam felt himself pulled into John's arms. Such a show of affection made Sam want to vomit. The closest he got was coughing a little bit, and he could feel the blood in his mouth. John's arms were around him comfortingly, gently rocking him as if Sam was a five year-old falling asleep. Sam tried to shove him away, to say something mean, but he was too weak. His body remained unresponsive, limp in John's grasp.

"I didn't hate you, Sammy," John whispered in a broken voice. "I still don't. Not even now."

"Dean?" He asked weakly, not able to force out more than one word, but he tried to put as much feeling into it as possible.

He heard his father sob. It was possibly the weirdest thing Sam had ever heard; it almost tied with Dean crying.

"It's not your fault," John choked. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry. Just please, don't hate me for this." How could he not? John had taken his dream away from him, his only chance at being worth something to someone other than a member of an army. He hated John, he hated Dean, he hated everyone and everything that had gotten in his way.

Just when he had reached the peak of all of the feelings that were spinning around crazily in his head, suddenly his mind was changing again.

"You never wanted me," he said, and his voice broke at the last word, his breath finally going. Before he knew what was happening, he was sobbing choked, dying sobs. He knew what went on in his father's head. He had never accepted Sam like he had Dean. He had always loved Dean, but never Sam. He had thrown Sam out of the only home he had. And he couldn't even be mad at him. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He couldn't be mad at his father now.

"Sam, I wanted you. I love you. Please, please don't hate me." The curtain was lifting. He could think like himself again. He wasn't angry, but he felt strangely detached from his body.

"I don't," he muttered, trying to get it out in case he slipped again. Why was he feeling normal again? He had died. The last part of him had died.

"Sammy?" John said, his voice frantic. "Is that you?" Sam could tell he was panicking now. He hadn't thought Sam would be able to remember.

"Dad?" Sam could feel the blood running down his front, but barely anything else. He was starting to hear other sounds, as if from an entirely different place. "It's me. It's Sam. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His body was shifting, but the motions were unreal, as if in a dream. At first he didn't realize what was happening, but he felt his father's jacket against his face as John held him close.

"It's not your fault," a voice said in his ear. "Remember that. Please."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I couldn't help it…I love you…I love both of you. I'm…sorry…I said those things." Silent tears were running down his face and onto John's jacket. This was the way it had to be. He had known it since he had first left Dean two weeks ago this was going to happen. He knew he was going to die; that much had been clear. It had been part of the deal.

But he had made it to save Dean, not kill him. He could accept letting himself die if it meant someone he loved would live.

"Please forgive me…" Sam said desperately. He needed to hear it before he died.

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Yes…there is…"

"There's _nothing_ to forgive. _They_ did this to you; it was _not_ your fault."

"I'm sorry," he whispered one last time, and wondered if John could even hear him. "I did ev'rything I could…I couldn't stop it…I couldn't save him…he wouldn't let me die…in peace… thank you for that." John was crying with him now.

"Don't say that. Don't say thank you. I don't deserve it."

"It's what's right."

"You don't deserve to die like this."

"Maybe I do…it's not that bad…at least…I'm not alone." He put a fake smile on, trying to be strong for the both of them, though if he was being honest he was terrified.

No matter how hard he had tried, he couldn't save Dean. He had regrets things he had hoped to do before he died, but it was too late. His main regret was not saying goodbye to his family properly. He wished he could see his big brother one last time, go on one last hunt with him.

It had all been for nothing. Everything he had worked for over the years was ending now. Why had he even lived in the first place if he was going to die like this?

An annoying tone resembling a busy tone on a phone was invading the back of his mind. The long, persistent beep refused to leave, and it pissed Sam off. He didn't want to die with that.

"I _am_ proud of you. I know I never said it, but I was. I love you, Sammy, just as much as I love Dean."

"That's…the first time…you've ev'r said…you w're proud 'f me…I've always waited…f'r you to say it…I nev'r thought…it'd be now…I don't deserve it." He felt his chest rise one last time and then his body was telling him to rest. An annoying tone resembling a busy tone on a phone was invading the back of his mind. The long, persistent beep refused to leave, and it pissed Sam off. He didn't want to die with that.

"You' have _no idea_ how much you deserve it. You're a good person, Sammy. This is their fault, not yours. I'm sorry I had to do this." Despite the fact that he was dying, he still held up a half-smile.

"'t's ok," Sam gasped out with his last ounce of breath.

Sam could feel his father's tears on his face as his body went totally limp. He knew it was too late to go back now. He was going to die and nobody was going to stop it. He was relieved, and hoped he would see Dean again soon. He missed him.

Then, in one split second, everything came rushing back. The tone in the back of his mind stopped, and was replaced by a strange, irregular beeping as he felt a jolt somewhere deep in his chest. Every memory, every thought, every feeling, came back all at once, hitting him like an avalanche. He felt like he was in two places at once. And then he remembered. Technically, he _was_ in two places at once. He knew now that it wasn't real. The doctors were scrambling around, and he could feel the breath rush back into his lungs and the painful jolt as the monitor recorded the restarting of his heart.

He was unable to open his eyes, but he could almost feel everything around him. For a few choice moments he was aware of everything going on in both of the rooms, from the doctors, to the machines, to his father.

"See you soon," he whispered, hoping that, even though he knew it was a vision or a dream, or whatever, his father could hear it.

"Did he just talk?" One of the doctors asked in disbelief. "He's under a heavy anesthetic; he shouldn't be able to talk after that."

Sam was alive. For the few moments he had he rejoiced the fact that he could think as himself. He could feel happiness and misery and relief, welcoming them with open arms. He knew who he was again. He knew he was going to give Dean a heart-attack when he woke up, but hopefully in a good way.

Adrenaline was rushing through his body. There was a weird crashing and one of the doctors cursed.

"What the hell was that?" Sam's heightened state of awareness told him the metal tray with the tools had tipped over. He would have to be careful; whenever this happened, things tended to go flying. He quickly reined it in.

His mind was starting to slip, and he randomly held on tighter to everything he could. He reached out for anything that would help him remember who he was.

Oh, shit. Dean. If he didn't do something, Dean was going to die. He was the reason Dean was in this in the first place, because he had unconsciously latched on to Dean's mind. At least, that was how Meg had explained it. He knew Dean was still in the dream, a step behind Sam. If he didn't get Dean out of it, he would die.

* * *

"_Dean! C'mon. You have to open your eyes! Come on! Wake up! I need you to open your eyes for me!" _

_Dean was too tired to answer to anything. His mind was wandering; he felt far away from his body. _

"_Dean! God dammit, do you want to die? Wake up!"_

_Huh, _Dean thought, _I didn't think you heard voices when you died. This dude is annoying. _

"_I'm not annoying. I'm trying to save your life, asshole!" _

Great. It could read his thoughts, too.

* * *

Dean wasn't waking up. He had to if this wasn't going to kill him. Sam could already sense he was bleeding. 

_What the hell do I do? _He didn't know the least thing about telepathy or why he had been sharing a vision with Dean.

* * *

"_Dean, if you don't wake up right now you're going to die."_

_I'm already dead. _

"_No, you're not! Pull yourself out of this!"

* * *

_

Still nothing. Dean was already too out of it to realize what he was trying to tell him. He reached out to check on the Dean in the waiting room that was still unconscious. His stomach was bleeding, and it was going to become deadly in a matter of seconds.

And Sam didn't know what to do.

He couldn't lose this battle. He had made it this far. He had seen his brother die once; he couldn't let it happen again. He didn't care what happened to him, as long as Dean was okay.

But he was so freaking helpless, just like he always was. He hated himself. He felt like everything was pressing in on him, crushing him. It surrounded him on all sides, just like it had every time he could think without outside interference. The past few minutes had been the only time he had been free of it. He couldn't let it destroy him now.

With every bit of strength he had, he pushed everything away from him. It felt like something had exploded out of him, freeing him, like breaking through to the top of a wave to finally get a breath of fresh air.

"His heart rate is through the roof," one of the doctors said urgently. The next moment everything around Sam turned to white, his surroundings melding together to form a solid barrier around him.

For a split second he couldn't think. He couldn't remember anything about who he was, what he was doing, and why he felt so confused. He didn't know where he had been the past two weeks, or the past two years for that matter. For that one split second his entire mind was in chaos, trying in vain to regain some control.

The next second everything had gone black, all thoughts extinguished like a candle in the wind.

* * *

Dean cried out as he returned to consciousness, feeling as if he had been hit by lightning. 

"Dean, are you alright?" He opened his eyes to the bright light of a hospital waiting room. He looked down at himself, unconsciously checking for injuries, bleeding of any sort. Dean lifted up his shirt, looking at his stomach. A deep gash covered the region where he had been stabbed in his dream, and his ribs still hurt.

Wait. It had been a dream. Dean, at that moment, felt a wave of relief so great the room spun for a second.

But just because it had been a dream didn't mean Sam was safe yet. "Sam?" Dean mumbled, too physically and emotionally exhausted to force out an entire sentence. John knew what he was asking about immediately.

"They're still working. Last time I checked they said they had gotten the bullet out and given him a few blood transfusions. They're still working on sewing up the injuries, but that was awhile ago and they said it could still go either way at this point."

"Internal injuries?"

"I don't know. They don't tell you _anything_ straight-out here. It was all medical talk and she left before I got to ask for the plain English version."

Dean dropped his head, rubbing his temples with his index fingers.

"Are you alright?" John asked. Dean realized he still had tears in his eyes and he was shaking from head to foot. A glance at the clock told him he had been asleep for only about twenty minutes. John held out one of the two coffee cups he was holding and Dean took it. "I haven't been able to sleep myself; I'm afraid I'd get nightmares about him being dead or something." When Dean winced, understanding crossed John's face

"Just a dream," Dean tried futilely to convince himself, though the counter argument of the realism and actual injuries were pretty freaking convincing. It couldn't have been a nightmare. The injuries only carried out into his conscious state when Sam had been sending them himself. When he needed Dean. When he was dying.

John's nightmares were just that. Nightmares. Dean's were desperate cries for help from his psychic brother.

"What happened?" John asked.

"You pretty much guessed it." John nodded, setting his Styrofoam cup down on top of a Men's Health magazine. Dean followed suit. He couldn't eat or drink anything right now. Not after what he'd just seen.

"It was just so real," he commented, his voice still trembling.

"Sam's in emergency surgery. I don't blame you. It was just a dream."

"Then how did I get this?" He lifted his shirt to show the injury. "It wasn't just a dream. He killed me, dad. He stabbed me in the stomach." For once, John didn't look like he knew what to say.

"But that could have been from another time. You still have the cuts from the last dream. Maybe it's not what you think."

"It is."

"Dean, I've never been able to wake you up when you're having those dreams. Why this time?"

Dean was almost afraid to answer. John must have read it on his face, though.

"No, Dean."

"But what if it was sent by him? What if he was dying and I snapped out of it because he couldn't send it anym—"

"Maybe it's because he's fine, and he didn't need to send it because he wasn't in danger anymore." It was far-fetched at best, but Dean tried to believe it.

"I just keep thinking about it. About all the things I never got to tell him."

"I do too, Dean. That's all I can think about. But we can not go around in the state of mind that he's going to die."

"It's just that in the car…" He had a huge lump in his throat that made it difficult to talk. "He sounded so sure that he was going to die. And I can't help thinking that it might have been the last time I ever spoke to him, and I didn't even tell him that I loved him." John snorted and Dean looked up, surprised.

"Dean, I don't think you realize it, but you did. A lot. He knows, he could hear you. You might have talked him out of it. Seriously, I don't know if anyone could have refused that. You've never broken down like that, and if that didn't talk him out of it I don't know what would."

"You didn't see me when I thought he was dead."

"He's not dead."

"And what if he is? What if he wakes up, and our Sam is gone forever? And what if this one isn't so hesitant to kill us?"

"He'll never be gone forever. He'll always be in there. And we won't let him hurt anyone."

"What if it comes down to me or him? He's going to kill me, and the only way you can stop him is to shoot him. Do you think you'd be able to do it? I don't think I could."

"We're not going to let it come to that."

"What if it does?"

"I can't choose between you two."

"That's not what I meant. This isn't simply a choice between us. This is a matter of, if it comes down to it, could you kill your own son?"

"Dean, I don't think I can answer—"

"Exactly," Dean said, proving his point. Then, as an aside "He'd probably stop the bullet in midair anyway. He can do freaky shit like that now."

Dean started tapping on the armrests, and John rolled his eyes. Dean wouldn't sleep again for awhile. Not after what he'd seen. John couldn't blame him, though. He was on his third cup of coffee.

The doctors had barely given them any news since they had brought Sam in the night before. A quick glance at the clock told Dean that it was around noon. He internally kicked himself for falling asleep; Sam needed him, he couldn't sleep now, for however short a time. He didn't want to remember for the rest of his life that he had slept through the entire time his brother was in the most life-threatening situation of his existence.

He couldn't stop being nervous, though. Sam had sent the dream for a reason, and somehow, deep in his mind, he knew that something bad had happened. Really bad.

"Where's Deena? She said she'd explain everything…"

"They had to take care of her arm. You know, when the girl—"

"Oh, yeah. The name's Nora. Lovely girl, by the way." Heavy sarcasm use. "I met her; she and Sam make a really cute couple."

"What?"

"Dream. Apparently the bad boy version of Sam has a thing for possessed chicks. I personally preferred Sarah, but hey, that's just me…" John didn't even bother to ask who Sarah was, it was just so obvious by the way Dean said it. Dean continued tapping for a few more minutes while John moved impatiently in his seat.

"I called Missouri while you were asleep," John said, trying to break the silence.

"Hmm..." Dean replied, still enveloped in the events of his dream.

"She says to call back when we get news about Sam. She has an idea, but didn't tell me." John smiled, shaking his head. "Cryptic, as usual." Dean merely nodded. He didn't feel like talking until he knew Sam was going to be alright.

John remained silent, wrapped in his own thoughts. Or maybe he was just thinking about what to say next. Dean decided it was the latter.

"He'll be ok, Dean." Dean nodded nervously again.

"If only I could convince myself that."

"He will."

"I just," he paused, wondering whether or not to get into this subject. He was asking for a chick-flick moment. "I can't lose him. I can't."

"I don't want him to die either, Dean. Believe me."

"He wanted me to let him die. He wanted to leave me."

"He didn't want to leave us. He wanted to get rid of that thing. He wanted to do this for us."

"I don't need it!" Dean snapped. "I don't need his freaking help! I don't need him dying for me! I might as well just die if that's the other option. At least then I can die in peace."

"He's not going to die. He won't leave us unless there's no other option."

"Well, what if there _is_ no other option?" John remained silent. Dean continued his tapping as John opened his bag.

"You know," John said, finally finding what he was looking for. "He really does care about you. He's been through a lot of shit for you too." Dean looked on curiously as John flipped through the messages on his cell phone. He finally reached the one he was looking for. He held the phone out for Dean to take.

"Sam sent this to me about three months ago. I never got to tell him how sorry I was that I didn't call back. Nearly gave me heart attack when I finally got it." Dean pressed the button to play the message, and was greeted with his brother's voice. It sounded like he was trying—and failing—to hold back tears.

"Hey, Dad. It's Sam. Uh….you probably won't even get this, but, uh….it's Dean. He's sick, and uh….the doctors say there's nothing they can do. Um….but, uh, they don't know the things we know, right? So, don't worry, because, uh….I'm going to do whatever it takes to get him better. Alright….just wanted you to know."

A woman's voice came on. "If you would like to save this message, press—" Dean pressed one.

"You never asked for his help, but apparently it worked." Dean closed his eyes, smiling to keep back the tears that were threatening.

"I was dying. I told him—" he chuckled nervously as he realized the connection, "—I told him that I was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it."

"Judging by the fact you're sitting here right now he didn't give up." Dean looked away from his father, trying to hide the tears.

"No, he didn't." It had been neither easy nor simple; another person had to die, a fact Dean had not let slip for a long while after. But he understood. If it was between a stranger's life and Sam's, it would be Sam any day.

"Um, are you Samuel Winchester's family?" a female voice asked.

"Yes. I'm his father, John Winchester and this is his cousin, Dean Forrester."

Dean's stomach was in knots and he was afraid of standing for fear he would collapse, they would check him out to see if he was hurt, notice his stomach injury, and he wouldn't find out about Sam for another ten minutes or so. John also remained seated.

"How is he?" John asked cautiously. He exchanged looks with Dean, and they both internally crossed their fingers and prayed to whatever god there was.

**Author's Note: So, Dean's still alive! Yay! Right? Technically it wasn't all a dream. It was more of a vision.**

**And Sam's whole out of body, super-aware state, in case anybody was confused, was basically his powers going haywire and overloading, almost consuming him. He has to be very careful if he wants to control it in times like that. He was losing it, so he had to put a stop to it, and that's what happened at the end, when he just basically went 'enough' and just halted everything, which can have disastrous consequences for him. Any questions? I'm happy to answer them.**

**Sorry for the longer-than-usual update time, but I just kept changing things.**


	16. Somewhat Answers

_**Chapter 16: Somewhat Answers**_

**Disclaimer: I'm running out of creative ways to put the disclaimer, so for now I'll stick with the normal one. I do not own Sam, Dean, John, Meg, the Demon, or any other characters or places or whatever. **

Dean knew he was going to have a heart attack from the anticipation, though he only had to wait a few seconds for the response. It couldn't be. Sam couldn't be dead. Not again. He didn't know why he had dreamt about Sam's death, and why Sam would choose now to send him something like that. Of course, Sam probably hadn't had the chance to _choose _to do it. But somehow he had.

_Sam, if you die again I am going to be so pissed at you._

"Given his situation, he's doing well" Dean allowed himself an ounce of relief, but prepared himself for the 'but' he knew was going to come. "But his situation is not the best by a long-shot. Most people would be dead by now. We're doing the best we can, I promise you. But we just don't know if that's enough. He flat-lined about twenty minutes ago and we thought we'd lost him there for a few moments, but we were able to resuscitate him. Samuel—" the doctor continued.

"Sam," Dean corrected. "He hates Samuel." He also hated Sammy, but Dean was giving up that nickname over his dead body. Well, maybe that was the wrong wording, but still…

"Sam was in really bad shape when you brought him in. He just seemed like he was in shock, both mentally and physically. And he had that problem—a patient can not go into surgery thinking he's going to die."

Dean didn't know what to say, probably because he didn't know what that meant for Sam. "Will he live?"

"It depends on how bad the damage turns out to be in the next few days. He's not out of surgery yet, so depending on how well he reacts complications can occur. We'll make sure he's comfortable and has everything he needs. Honestly, we don't know what happened to him, who or what would do that to anyone. He has some broken ribs, a gunshot wound, massive blood loss from what looked like claw marks, a blow to the head, bruising all over his body, and a fractured left wrist. We're also checking his blood more thoroughly; we found traces of something in it, but we're not sure what just yet."

"Can we see him once he gets out of surgery?" Dean asked.

"We'll still be monitoring him down in Intensive Care. Until he stabilizes we can only let you in for a few minutes at a time. I'll let you know if you stay here." She started to turn, but John stopped her.

"Doctor?" She turned, looking impatient but attempting to keep a polite façade. "Can you just tell me, straight out, no glossing anything over or making things sound better than they are, how he is?" The doctor took a deep breath.

"We don't know anything for sure; he's having trouble breathing on his own, his blood pressure is unstable, and we're having trouble stopping the bleeding. Altogether, not good signs. At this point, I'm afraid that for a full recovery we'll have to hope for a miracle." She smiled encouragingly, turned, and then hit herself on the head, remembering something.

"You also brought in Ishana, correct?" Dean wracked his brain, but nothing came to him.

"Uh…" he started, but John beat him to it.

"Yes, we did. But don't let her catch you using that name. She goes by her middle name, Deena."

"Yes, well, you can see her now. We're not sure if we will have to keep her overnight. Probably not, we're just checking to make sure her cut won't get infected. She's in room 208."

"Thank you," John said, grinning weakly. She smiled warmly at him, turned, and headed down the hallway.

"See," John said to Dean. "He's alive."

"We don't know for how much longer, though."

"It's the best we're going to get. You can't be too picky in times like this. But at least he's still breathing for now." Dean couldn't help smiling sadly at that. "Look, I'll call Missouri. Just hang on, alright? We're going to be fine, we always are."

Dean nodded, still lightheaded. "Yes, sir."

John pulled out his cell phone and dialed. His face looked impassive, but Dean could see his hands holding the phone's frame harder than necessary to keep his hands from trembling, and his eyes were shining from tears being held back. Dean figured it would be best to leave him alone for a few minutes. Dean turned on his heel and started down the hallway.

"Where are you going?" John called.

"To room 208," he shouted back over his shoulder. "I'm getting some answers." Hopefully Dean would get an explanation that didn't make him want to shoot someone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deena sat on her hospital bed, randomly flipping channels in a bored way. Her hair was down, framing a dark curtain around her face. She looked up the second Dean stepped through the doorframe.

"How is he?" she asked tentatively, her face pale.

"He's—better," Dean assured her, his face tensed into a grimace. "There's no way to tell yet. We just don't know."

"That's better than what it could be." Dean practically collapsed into the uncomfortable chair at her bedside. She furrowed her brow. "You don't seem relieved at all."

"Why should I be?" He asked quietly, carefully examining his entwined fingers. "He could die at any moment. Every second I'm here his heart could be stopping. I won't be_ relieved_ until I see him, awake, healthy and _not_ trying to kill me."

Deena nodded. "I understand. Especially after that dream you had." Dean looked up so fast he felt something pop in his neck.

"How did you know about that?" he asked, rolling his head to the side to avoid the pain.

"I'm a psychic, remember?" she said, tapping her forehead with her index finger.

"You said you can't read minds," Dean accused.

"I can't. I didn't read your mind."

"Then how did you know about my dream?"

"It wasn't a normal dream." Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh, really?" he asked sarcastically.

"I don't read minds. I can harness on to psychic energies."

"Whatever that means…"

"Every person with special psychic abilities gives off their own individual type of signal when they use their powers. Like a trademark, almost. I can sense those signals and interpret them, tell what they mean. I know when they're using their powers and what they're doing. Sam died in your dream and so did you. He got back up and stabbed you. Am I right?" Dean nodded.

"And this time it was pretty damn easy. To me, it was like there was a huge explosion down in the ER."

"What the hell happened, then? Why did I get that dream?"

"It wasn't exactly a dream, per say. It was a vision."

"I don't get visions."

"Sam does."

"And why did I get to join in on the fun?"

"Basically what happened was all of his powers went totally haywire. Everything was working uncontrollably. He had a vision, he could get into people's minds, and he probably used his telekinesis once or twice, too. Everything was out of his control."

"Any idea why that would happen now?"

"Well, it happens once or twice to people with telekinetic powers when they're in the first stages of development of their powers, usually when they're in stressful situations. He was flat-lining, dying. It was like pressing the panic button."

"So he just went out of control?"

"You were unconscious when he had the vision. He accidentally entered your mind and sort of…"

"Took me along for the ride?"

"Well, yeah." For a few moments they simply sat in silence. Dean wasn't sure where to start, so he waited for her to say something first. After two minutes it got to be too much and he caved, picking the first topic that came into his mind.

"Can you turn that off?" he suggested, indicating at the television. "I can't stand Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The entire premise is factually inaccurate." He took a second look. "Oh, they did a musical episode?" Deena pressed the power button, cutting off Buffy in mid-note. "And every time she just goes home to her cozy little bed. I _wish_ it was that easy."

Suddenly it was quiet once more. Dean took a deep breath. He hated awkward silences and knew he was going to be the one to break it again.

"So," Dean started, wondering how to pose the question. "I believe I heard the words 'I'll explain later' about five-thousand times. This is later. You have time. Explain."

Deena took a deep breath. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Well, since your explanation in the car made no sense—"

"I wouldn't expect it to, you were a little distracted. Your brother was dying."

"Or maybe it was you, talking your ass off."

"Do you want me to try to explain it or not? Because you're really not giving me much incentive right now."

Dean ignored the comment. "Just start at the beginning. I heard something about a…'parasite.'"

"Well, that was kind of just an example." She thought for a second. "First of all, tell me something: the Demon came when he was six months old, right?"

"Yes."

"Sam must have been alone at some point that night, right?"

"Yes," he repeated. "He was six months old. His residence was a crib in his nursery next to my room, and my parents and I did tend to sleep every once in awhile."

"Well, some point when he was alone the Demon came. When nobody could help him. And it was during that time that I'm guessing that it did something to him. Planted something."

"Something resembling a parasite, a seed, or something like that from what I'm getting?"

"Exactly. Now, this is just what I'm piecing together from what I've gotten. But from what I can tell it's been there for almost his entire life. I'm _guessing _since that night."

"Do you know exactly what it is?" Dean asked, leaning forward in his seat, curiosity growing.

Deena shook her head. "I don't know. I've never come across anything like it. But I know it was definitely planted by an outside force. Nothing that hostile could have been naturally part of him. It's some type of weird demonic parasite and, like you can probably guess, not a benign one."

"How come we haven't noticed anything wrong with him before now?"

"Because it didn't just _conveniently_ decide to act just when the Demons decided they wanted him."

"So there's some sort of trigger?"

"Not exactly. It's more of a process, longer than one step."

"He couldn't have been perfectly normal or anything before now." Deena opened her mouth and Dean answered her question before she asked. "No, not that. He hasn't gone psycho or anything before now. He's done stuff before. Not normal stuff for someone like him. Just dreams and he moved something once. So it must have done something to him before last night or whenever. It's like a tradeoff. It gets to take control of Sam's body and he gets powers." She shook her head as he finished his theory, her mind obviously somewhere else. "You mean he was born that way? He was born able to move shit with his mind?"

"You know, I explained everything last night."

"Yeah, I know, I was distracted. Shut up." There was a long period of silence. Deena didn't say anything, just stared pointedly at him. "What?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you told me to shut up." Dean rolled his eyes and didn't respond. Luckily she seemed to not have to wait for an apology. She wouldn't be getting one.

"Look, his powers were why the Demon chose him in the first place. But they shouldn't have worked. None of his powers should have worked until now. The 'parasite' as it was, is designed to stifle his powers until it is able to take full control of him. How it's supposed to work is that as the 'host' grows, unaware of the powers they possess, the 'parasite' takes control of their abilities. Also, it slowly applies its own changes, twists the mind."

"So his entire _life _it has been controlling his actions?" Dean was in shock. If what she was saying was true, then did that mean that he had never really known his brother, just a twisted copy of him?

"No," she assured him, looking annoyed. "That's how it was _supposed_ to work. That's what I thought at first, that somehow you just hadn't noticed it before now." Dean was a bit insulted. He knew his own brother. Sure, Sam could be a bit of a jackass sometimes, but Dean would have noticed if he was morphing into a demon.

"I didn't think there was any other explanation for it. Something inside him must have fought back, though. And that shouldn't have been able to happen."

"Then what makes him so special?"

"I guess there's really only one answer. He's more powerful than they thought, than _any_ of us thought."

"More powerful than we thought. Where's the 'we' in there? I didn't even know he had powers for real in the first place. I was just a little nervous when I found out he had those freaky dreams. I guess I thought maybe it was something we ran into, an after effect. I researched it when I thought he was asleep. And then he moved that dresser—"

"He moved a dresser?" Dean nodded in confirmation. "Jesus Christ. Most people with telekinetic powers can move books, lamps—"

"Guns?"

"Yes. But not much more than that. Simple stuff."

"Max was the one that moved the dresser there in the first place."

"Max?"

"Psycho psychic wonder boy that had the same problem as Sam."

"If he was overly violent, maybe it was starting to take over him. What happened to him?"

"He killed himself. Probably realized what was happening to him or something."

"What did he do?"

"He murdered his father and uncle, attempted to kill his stepmother, trapped Sam in a closet with the dresser we discussed barring the way. You know, you say it's remarkable that Sam could move a dresser. Max moved that and a lot of other stuff."

"At his full capabilities. Most of Sam's were barred from him. Again, he shouldn't have been able to do _anything_. Did he ever say how he was able to move it?"

"He said something about seeing a vision with me dying."

"I mean, how did he describe the actual event?"

"Max shot me right between the eyes."

"No. I mean, did he mention how it felt when he moved the dresser? He must have said something. Did he just say 'move the dresser' to himself? Did he picture it in his mind?"

"He never explained in detail. He didn't really seem like he wanted to talk about it, but he said that it was like some sort of weird adrenaline thing, like a punch. I asked him about it once after that and he told me he felt like something had snapped inside him, something just came out of him and pushed it."

"That would explain most of it. Psychic abilities are naturally strengthened in stressful situations. Adrenaline is like adding an extra engine to a car. Anger works well too."

"Well, he's either really powerful or he was really stressed out."

"I'm going for the first one. No matter how stressed or pissed off he got it shouldn't have happened."

"So he'll just live for the rest of his life, randomly moving things when he's angry or upset?"

"Not necessarily. There is hope that he may be able to harness his abilities. It all depends."

"What exactly _are_ his abilities?"

"From what you're saying he has some level of telekinesis, a bit of telepathy, that would be why he could send you the dreams."

"And tell me that I was going to be run over by the semi." Dean had told her about the semi incident. (Actually, John had. Dean would never bring that subject unless absolutely necessary.) He could tell, though, by the look on her face, that he hadn't mentioned how Sam had intervened.

"He did what?"

"He told me the semi was going to hit me without actually being there." Then he remembered the other time when it had happened. "The same thing happened before I woke up. He told me to get up or I was going to die. I didn't listen to him; I was delirious. But I woke up. I should have died, but I woke up." There was only one explanation. "What did he do?"

"He did the last thing you want to do when your powers are out of control like that. He stopped everything, he shut everything down; he blocked himself off from everything. That was probably why you woke up; the signal he was sending to you was broken. He knew what would happen if you didn't wake up right then."

"Is that bad?"

"Yes, it is. You can't just suppress that power. It's not exactly something you can just extinguish. It has side effects. There's a reason things started to happen. That power he has was overloading and had to go somewhere. He blocked the way for that to get out; when you do that, all of it rebounds on you. You get the effects of it, and sometimes that can be fatal. It's lucky he survived it this long."

"This long?" Deena realized what she had said, and then corrected herself quickly.

"No, no. I didn't mean it like that. There's still hope." She smiled, but Dean could see the real answer in her eyes.

"Is he going to die?" Dean asked quietly, trying to keep his voice from switching octaves and making him sound like a fifth grader going through puberty.

"No," Deena assured, but once again her eyes were the downfall of Dean's belief in her views. "I was just saying that a normal person would be dead by now. But he's not normal, and it all depends on different factors." It sounded to Dean like a line perfectly delivered by a skilled actor.

"Everybody keeps trying to make things sound better than they are," Dean insisted angrily, picking a spot on the ceiling to concentrate his focus on. "I'm a realist. If my brother is going to die I need to know. Now tell me, Deena." He turned the full force of his gaze upon the young girl, who suddenly looked like she belonged in high school again; the panic was all-too-visible in her eyes. She didn't know whether or not to tell him straight out. "Can he make it through this? Or is he going to die? The doctors say they need a miracle. Do we even have that much hope? Can a miracle happen?"

Dean could tell she wanted to look away, but he intensified his gaze to the point where she had to look him in the eyes. She could have had the same effect on him if she knew how to use her eyes, which were so blue you always had to keep staring to see if they really did go on forever like they seemed. "The truth is, Dean, I just don't know. I'd love to tell you. I'd love to tell you that everything's going to be alright, that he'll make it through this and be healthy and happy, but I can't. I'd love to, but I can't."

Dean bit his lip so hard it hurt, searching wildly around him for some way to escape all of the pain that hurt more than anything he had ever felt on any hunting trip. The demons, Meg, they could torture him all they wanted, but nothing they ever did would be as cruel as making him sit in that white room knowing his brother could die at any second.

"Why'd he do it?" Dean muttered through clenched teeth, more to himself than anything else.

Deena looked at him like he was stupid. "He was going to kill you. He didn't think he had a choice. He had to stop the connection."

"Why does he have to keep doing this to himself? Why does he think he has to do this? Why does he think that he has to be the one to die, and I have to be the one to watch?"

"I have no idea how you're feeling right now, but it seems—"

"Deena," he said simply, silencing her immediately. "That vision he had. The one he sent to me too. Was that really what would have happened twenty minutes ago if he died then? Or was that of the future? Our future for right now? The one that can still happen?"

Deena hesitated before answering, the longest pause she had ever taken before talking the entire time he had known her. It was a compulsion of hers; she always talked really fast when nervous. "I guess it was both. It was a possible future; nothing is set in stone."

"He still wants to do it. He still wants to die, just like he did in the car."

"You're wrong. It wasn't suicide."

"Then what exactly was it? Because he sure as hell was going to die of his own choice."

"Did he seem like he wanted to die just to die?" Dean shook his head, not understanding. "He had a logical reason."

"Logical suicide is still suicide," he countered.

"It wasn't suicide. He was going to let himself die, but it wasn't for his own benefit, Dean. He knew what he was becoming; he knew he couldn't fight it forever. He wanted to stop himself while he still could."

"You don't know him." His voice had gained an edge. She didn't know anything about Sam. He had taken care of Sam his entire life and she thought she could come in for one day and know his every thought? No.

"I'm just telling you what you didn't want to see yourself."

"What I didn't want to see?" Dean was really getting pissed off at her self-assured tone. Let her tell him what was going on _his_ mind.

"You're scared. You won't admit it, but you are. I can tell that much. You don't want to believe that somebody cares enough about you to do something like he did. You don't want to feel responsible, even though it's his choice. So you choose not to believe it, to call it suicide rather than sacrifice."

"You can't read minds."

"Close. The stronger the emotions the more I can make them out."

"You knew exactly what he was thinking in the car."

"They were some really strong emotions in there. Whatever you were feeling, as strong as your emotions were, his were worse. He's been through hell, Dean. And I didn't have to read your mind to know what _you_ were thinking. It's just so obvious."

"Well, I think I've made everything painfully obvious in the past few minutes anyway."

"Dean?" said a weak voice from the doorway. Dean spun in his chair and was greeted with his father's silhouette. "He's back from surgery. They say we can see him for a few minutes if we want to." His father's voice made it sound like there was something the doctors had said that he was leaving out. Judging by the situation, Dean could guess the gist.

"Deena," he said, his throat suddenly dry. "Can I come back later? I need to—" At that point his voice pathetically dropped out. He cleared his airway to continue, but realized he didn't need to; she had gotten the point.

"I can answer your other questions later." Dean took a deep breath, stood up, and tentatively followed his father out of the room.

"Um, Dean," Deena said from her bed. He turned around. "Just to let you know, I believe in miracles." Dean smiled at her.

"Me too."

**Author's Note: Ok, so sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter out, but I rewrote it like a million times and I think I finally got it right. **

**I totally cut out half of the explanation, because I thought it might give too much away, and also I didn't want it to be totally exposition (which it was in the first draft). **

**Just to let everybody know, I don't hate Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I just thought it would be good for Dean to react to. I preferred the original movie anyway. Yeah, yeah, I know. I liked it. Sue me. (My friends think I'm weird because of that)**

**Um…that's really all I can think of to say. If you have any questions write them in your review, send me an e-mail or a PM.**


	17. Weakness

**Chapter 17: Weakness**

"Are you sure you can handle this, Dean?" His father asked from beside him, hesitating before opening the so-creatively-colored white door.

"I can handle this, dad," he insisted, though his stomach was in knots, his hands were shaking, he could barely open his mouth because his jaw was so tensed, just like every other muscle in his entire body, and he couldn't remember the exact technique for breathing. He knew what was going to greet him once he opened the door. As good as everybody tried to make it look, Sam was dying, and unless there was a big change Dean knew Sam would last a few days at most.

"He won't be conscious," John said, stalling as long as he could, his face whiter than even Dean's. Dean rolled his eyes and while his father babbled on he took a steadying breath, like a diver preparing to take the jump, turned the doorknob and entered, cutting John off in mid-sentence.

Sam didn't look all that different than when he had been dead. There were definitely some vital differences, of course. The beeping reported his heartbeat, however irregular it was, and his chest rose with his shallow breathing; his lips lacked the blue tinge too.

Dean didn't care who he was or what he acted like, he would do anything to make sure he never had to face the prospect of burying his baby brother. He would never complain again, he would put up with everything, as long as he could always look over and see Sam's chest rising up and down.

Dean reached, his hand shaking, to brush his fingers against the top of Sam's hand, almost jerking his hand away at first in shock of how cold it was. Once he got over his initial reaction he pulled Sam's hand into his own, enveloping it the rest of the way with his other palm. He took a deep breath, already not caring that John was in the room too. He wondered what to say in this situation, and came out with his usual way of dealing with things.

"You owe me a car, man." He smiled nervously, but Sam couldn't respond in his normal, eye-rolling way. "The doctors say it'll help if you hear a familiar voice. Well, don't expect too much. We really don't have that much to talk about when you're awake, so screw that. And what do you say to someone in this situation anyway."

Silence fell like a curtain over the occupants of the room. They couldn't talk too loudly about anything that had happened until they had their own room because of the risk of being thrown into the psych ward. There were times when Dean didn't even believe he was sane.

As he looked at his brother's sleeping form, he realized he was having one of those times. He saw Sam there, but he didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe his brother was getting his food, water, and air (partially) through a tube. He wanted to believe he was hallucinating, that this was all a dream, or something. An unbelievable, horribly vivid dream. He wanted to turn around and see Sam standing in the doorway, healthy and wearing one of his classic, too-wide-for-his-face geekboy smiles.

But he couldn't. He couldn't believe all those good things. This was real. Sam really was lying before him, close to death, possibly never to wake up again. He squeezed Sam's hand even harder in encouragement, as if by holding on to Sam it would jerk him back. For about the hundredth time in the past few weeks he felt like crying, the tears already forming. Why was he so weak? How could he be so impartial, never showing his emotions in front of anyone, and yet one sight of his brother, pale and dying, and he broke down like a child?

"I'm sorry," said a voice beside him that Dean only vaguely recognized as his father's. He couldn't quite understand why John would apologize when he hadn't even done something. It was then that Dean noticed with curiosity that his father was striding down the hallway to get to the door as quickly as possible, running his fingers through his hair nervously.

"What are you—" Dean started, but the door was already shut. He wondered if he should go after him, but a brief glance at the occupant of the bed told him who needed his time more. His father would live; Sam might not.

* * *

John felt sick. His world was spinning haphazardly around him, but still he kept walking. He had to get as much room between himself and Intensive Care as possible. He had never been the sort of person to run away from anything, but there was something about the ice cold feeling of Sam's skin that melted all his resolve away.

John couldn't stay there. Not then. He couldn't look at Sam's white face and remember that his eyes might never open again, that his face would remain ashen forever. Even when he had yelled at Sam, John had loved him more than anything in the world. Both of his sons' lives meant more than his own; he was more than willing to do anything necessary to make sure Sam would wake up. But there was nothing he could do. It was the most hopeless he had felt in his entire life.

He hated himself. He hated himself for being weak; Sam needed him now. But he just couldn't bring himself to look at his son living off of machines, and he knew Dean would get him for it later. He would get yelled at by his son once again; it had become a new trait ever since Sam had gone missing. He would let Dean yell all he wanted. He deserved it.

"Sir, are you alright," a nurse asked from behind him as he walked. "You look a little pale. I think you should sit down." John nodded numbly as she steered him toward one of the waiting rooms. He sat down and promptly buried his face in his hands.

"Do you fell nauseous at all?" John nodded again, rubbing his temples. "Put your head between your knees. Have you had any head injuries?"

"It's not that," he mumbled through the wall of his hands. "My son—he's—he's—um…"

"Oh," she said sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"I just…I just ran out on him…on my…so—nephew." He caught himself at the last minute. "I just panicked and ran. Just seeing him like that." He wondered if he was talking too much, but she held up a respectful silence as he talked. "I was fine when we were bringing him in. I guess it was the adrenaline. It just didn't really hit me until—until now, that he's probably going to die. I'm never going to see him—smile again. I'll never see him get married, I'll never see him have kids, I'll never see him yell at me." The nurse almost audibly smiled.

"He's not dead yet. There's always hope."

"It's just been a hard few weeks for us."

"I can imagine. Working at this hospital is like living in a soap opera. Seriously. And trust me, there's never a situation that's without hope. We've had some pretty bad cases pull through and recover. You just can't think about the fact that he might die. Think about the fact that he might live. And if he dies, that'll he horrible. But it'll be even more horrible if he dies and he never got to have you there for him."

"Grey!" A squat doctor called from across the room. John looked up as the nurse he was talking to turned around.

"Yes?"

"Find O'Malley for me. Now."

"Sure. I'm on it." She turned back to John, and he couldn't help but notice that she looked like she recognized him from somewhere else, and that bothered her.

"Um…" She looked over her shoulder at the doctor, who had a similar reaction. "If you need me, just ask for Meredith." Her brow furrowed, she turned away, but just as she turned the corner she came back and asked another question.

"Who is your son?"

"Sam Winchester."

"I promise I'll let you know if I find anything else out. I think someone I know may have operated on him."

"Thanks…Meredith?"

"Yeah. Um…I have to go find George."

---------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Forrester?" He heard the voice as if from yards away. He wondered if that person was about to get bad news. He hoped not. "Mr. Forrester?" The voice repeated.

_Oh, shit, that's me. _He tore his gaze away from Sam and looked up at the man standing next to him.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to go back into the waiting room for awhile. We'll let you come back in to see him as soon as possible." Dean was panicking. He couldn't leave Sam. Not now. He had promised himself he would never let anything happen to Sam. What would Dean be able to do if something did happen to Sam?

"I understand that you're reluctant to leave him. But I assure you, we're doing everything we can. He's in the best of hands."

"That's what they always say," Dean muttered in a hollow voice. "And do you know what usually happens after? Twenty-four hours later they're dead."

"I swear to you that we are one of the best facilities, but we can't help him as much as he needs if we have too many people down here. We need to have constant accessibility to our Intensive Care patients." Dean swallowed, the lump in his throat growing to where it was hard for him to breathe, let alone speak.

"Um… Doctor—" he started, clearing his throat, checking the doctor's nametag. "—Burke, can I just have two more minutes?" For the second time in his life he was pleading, not as strongly as he had to Sam, but pretty close. The doctor looked him over, trying to make a decision. Dean knew he would give in; the doctors knew this might be the last time he ever spoke to Sam again.

"Two more minutes. But then we're going to need to work on him again. I'm sorry."

"All I need is two minutes." The doctor nodded and walked over to the next patient.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said once more. He took in Sam's pale face, his cold hands, his weakened heart rate, his uneven breathing. "God, you look like complete and total shit. And I know you probably don't feel much better, but I need you to listen to me right now if you can. And I mean it; you'll be tested on this later." His voice had gained a commanding tone. For the first time, he truly felt like his father's son.

"I only have a few minutes, so I'll give you the condensed version. You're going to live. For dad. For mom. For Jess. For all those people out there that are going to need you. If I'm only allowed to ask you for one thing, it's this. I don't know much, but if I was ever positive about one thing it's that you weren't meant to die now.

"So, take note, because until you're better, you're going to be hearing a lot of this. And I want to give you this." Dean reached up and pulled the pendant over his head. "I know dad probably won't want me to do this—he gets all weird about it—but you need it more than I do. So here you go." Dean carefully opened Sam's cold palm, placed the tiny scorpion into it, and folded his brother's fingers over the small figure.

"And just one last thing. If you don't listen to me and dad in this instance, I _will _kick your ass." But Dean knew that healthy or not, comatose or not, evil or not, jackass or not, he was never going to let them have Sam. Never again.

"I'll see you soon."

**Author's Note: Just in case you didn't get it, the intern John was talking to was supposed to be Meredith from Grey's Anatomy. She confused him with Denny. I know it's the wrong city and all, but whatever, make up your own reasoning for that, I'm out of creative energy.**

**Oh, and I know some of you are confused. I get it! It helped me at first, but will you please let me know what you're confused about? I really can't fix something if I don't know what's wrong. There are some things I can't clear up because you'll gradually figure them out as the story goes on. But just include it in your review if you have time. Thank you.**

**I probably won't be updating within the next week, so sorry. I'm going on vacation to New York City. I'm a musical theater fan, so I'm seeing four shows (The Wedding Singer, Wicked, Avenue Q, and Spamalot).**

**Now if we're going TOTALLY off subject, I'm really mad at So You Think You Can Dance. I love Allison and Natalie, but I think America made the wrong decision. And I love Ryan, but Travis is my favorite dancer of the show, so I'm glad it wasn't him. Yeah, I know, just had to add it in there.**


	18. Miracles

_Samuel E. Winchester_

_May 2nd, 1983- April 30th, 2006_

_Beloved son, brother, and friend._

Even though it was right in front of his eyes, he denied it with every fiber of his being. Dean was kneeling before the headstone, probably looking like he was carved from stone himself.

So much for miracles, he thought vehemently. He heard footsteps behind him, and didn't bother to turn around.

"Hey, Dean," a voice said from over his shoulder. He knew who it was and found for once in his life he couldn't care.

"Meg," he acknowledged, barely moving his lips.

"So…Sammy's dead?"

"Sam," he corrected. "And you should know; you killed him," Dean said, his voice husky.

"He chose this for himself. He had the opportunity to be more than he was, but he had to question us, and with his last moments he chose death instead of life."

"If you're going to kill me, you might as well do it now."

"Why?"

"You've already fucked my family up enough. You might as well finish the job. I'm not afraid anymore. Not of you. Not of death. Nothing."

"Where's the Dean I know?"

"He's buried with Sam." He was a hollow shell, no soul left. He could tell it showed too. His voice was dull, dead, his face emotionless. "You ruined everything I had to live for."

"Melodramatic much? He's one person, I highly doubt he was your will to live."

"He was my brother. I was the first person he saw when he was born. He was what I lived for. And you destroyed it."

"You destroyed everything you had, not us,"she continued."He had potential, he was exactly what he wanted to be. He didn't want to die, but you convinced him. You think you did the exact opposite, but you didn't. You killed him."

"Don't try to convince me that you cared about him, you bitch."

"You can call me a bitch all you want, but it's not going to bring Sam back." Dean still hadn't moved his gaze from the headstone, even carrying on his conversation.

"What about your father?" Meg asked.

"He didn't even bother to come to the funeral. He's lost all my respect."

"Alright, then. Give me one reason why we should kill you, why we should just end it now."

"It'll happen sooner or later, more likely sooner, whether by your hand or not. I just don't care anymore. I thought I cared, I thought I owed it to him to kill all of you, but I just can't. The past few weeks, the funeral, they convinced me. I can't do what my father did. I can't destroy other people's lives to make up for what I did, what I messed up. So if you came to say something, say it now, and if you came to kill me, do it now. If not, just leave me alone."

There was silence for a few moments, then there was the sound of the safety being turned off of a gun. He felt more than saw or heard her walk forward to him. Dean waited, his eyes partially closed.

I'm sorry, Sam, he thought, as he felt Meg stop, standing right next to him. The opportune moment.

In the time he had spent in the past weeks he had not been wasting the precious moments. Perhaps this was the worst idea he had ever come up with, but if he couldn't get to the demon, he was sure as hell getting Meg. He lashed out, catching her by surprise, wrenching the gun from her fingers as he pulled his own out. Within a matter of seconds he had her pinned to the ground, the Colt pressed to her forehead.

"Nice job. Playing rough, are we? I can do that, I guess."

"For once in your life, shut the fuck up."

"Unless you say please, I'm afraid it's not going to do you much good. I've got backup coming, anyway, so do what you were going to do, get off me, or--"

"I don't want to hear the 'or'. I just want to repay you for killing my brother."

"How do you know it was me that did that to him?" Dean'sgaze bored into her head. She rolled her eyes. "Alright, I did." Dean cocked the gun. "But before you kill me, I did come to tell you something, Dean."

"And?"

"Your father says it's time to wake up."

* * *

"Wha'?" Dean lurched forward in his seat, his head spinning from his sudden return to consciousness. 

"Hey, Dean." John greeted from the seat next to him in the waiting room.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean may have not been totally awake, but he was still able to go from calm to pissed within a fraction of a second. It was a gift.

"You haven't been asleep very long."

"That's not what I asked. Where. Were. You? Where were you when Sam needed you?"

"Oh," John said, looking, if possible, ashamed of himself.

"Sam is dying, he needs us now more than ever and you just run out with a simple 'I'm sorry?' He could be dead right now!"

"If he was dead we'd know."

"That does not make what you did any more justified!"

"I know," John said, the words coming out rushed as he averted his eyes from Dean's face. "I know what I did was wrong. I'm sorry." Dean was so shocked he found he couldn't be angry.

"He needs us," Dean repeated, his voice coming out in a whisper.

"I know. I know. It was just—it was too much—I couldn't."

"It was hard for me to see him like that too. But come on, dad! People think of you as some sort of warrior, you hunt supernatural beings, demons and ghosts, but you can't walk into the ICU to support your son, who is probably going to die at any second? What if you blew your last moments with him?"

"He's not going to die," John snapped.

"What if he does?" Dean hated to say it, but he was scared it was true. It was hitting him now harder than ever.

"He's not. Dean, he's not. You have to believe that."

"I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. For the past weeks I've believed. I believed that a miracle could happen, that we could find Sam. We found him. I'm just afraid that maybe we used our miracle already, and that it's too late to ask for another one." Breath was coming hard as he remembered his dream. He didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't stop his morbid train of thoughts.

"Dean—"

"Um…I'm going to go get coffee. I had, uh, another…nightmare, and I just…I just don't want to go back to sleep. Okay?" He got up from his seat and started down the hallway, only realizing once he was turning the corner that he was going the wrong way.

"Dean!" His father called after him, but Dean ignored him and kept walking.

He made a quick right turn once he got to the coffee machine. His hands were shaking so badly he almost spilled it over his jacket, which he had just recently managed to clean, though it still felt awkward wearing it.

"Dammit," he muttered before taking a sip, not caring about the scorching pain it caused him. He needed something to take away from what he was feeling. He didn't want to feel helpless; he didn't want to have to sit here not knowing how to make his situation better than it was.

His world as he knew it was tumbling down around him. If Sam died, it would send the remaining Winchesters falling back down the steep hill they had spent years climbing up. Revenge would consume John again, and Dean would probably end up dead too. If he didn't have Sam, he didn't know what there was to live for anymore. He wouldn't be careful anymore, he wouldn't bother to try anything to save his own life, he wouldn't care.

Physically, he supposed he was as healthy as he could hope to be, but inside he was in that hospital bed, dying with Sam. What good would it do to cure the body if the soul inside died? Sam's final blow would be Dean's.

"Dean!" Someone was calling his name, and the abruptness of the shout startled Dean. He turned around so fast he spilled hot coffee all over himself.

"God dammit!" He cursed, taking his jacket off. "You know what? Screw this jacket! It's not worth it, it's ruined anyway." The nerves were making him jumpy and easy to anger.

"Dean," the voice repeated.

"What, dad?" Dean snapped, agitated as he dabbed his shirt with the napkin that had come with the coffee.

"It's about Sam." Dean immediately froze, terrified by the soft sound of his father's voice. Dreading what he would see, he lifted his head. His father wore a neutral expression, but something about him told Dean that he had been crying.

"He's not—" John shook his head, only confusing Dean further. Eyes shining, John's face broke into a weak grin.

"He's going to be fine." The words hit Dean like a train, waves of relief washing over him so hard that within seconds he found himself in a chair without remembering ever sitting in the first place.

"Really?" His voice was choked; he was afraid that the fatigue was making him delusional.

"Really," John assured.

"I can't believe it," he choked out.

"They stopped the bleeding and he's stabilizing. He's going to be alright unless something goes horribly wrong, which probably won't."

"How?" Dean found himself unable to form full sentences under the strain of fighting a losing battle to keep his composure.

"They say it's a miracle." That was it. Dean lost it from then on. His head resting in his hands, he felt his chest compress as he tried to stifle a sob in vain. He was silently thanking all the gods he knew of.

Without thinking, he threw his arms around his father, instantly forgetting that he had ever been mad at him. John sat there for a second, stunned, before he wrapped his arms around Dean, hugging him in return.

"He's going to be alright," John repeated in the most fatherly tone he had ever used.

"He listened." John hesitated a second before answering.

"Yes, he did. He loves us. I told you, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, smiling through the tears. "You did."

**Author's Note: Yeah, I'm a sucker for those moments. Sorry if it seemed a little rushed, and it was pretty short, so I'm sorry. I'm editing the next chapter, butI don't know how long that will take, today was my first day of school and I'm not sure how soon I'll have work to do. The whole medallion/pendant that Dean gave Sam will come into play, but just how majorly you'll have to see. **

**I really don't have any more comments except for REVIEW!**

**Thank you.**

* * *


	19. Paranoid

Every member of the Winchester family hated hospitals for their own private reasons. Dean hated them because he had been constantly paranoid about Sam ever since he had seen him die. He was also on constant watch to see if anybody recognized him as Dean Winchester. John was worried that anything could attack them and they would be wide open and vulnerable, especially Sam in his practically comatose state. But the main reason they both hated them was because they would always remember it as the place where they had almost lost one of the things that meant the world to them: Sam, who really didn't even realize he was _in_ a hospital; he wasn't really in a position to be aware of his surroundings.

Five hours passed before they were allowed in to see Sam. If Dean was being honest, he really didn't look like he had changed much since the last time he had seen him. The details he did notice, though, were the ones that made all the difference in the world. John was still a bit green-faced in the room, but he stood his ground.

Sam hadn't woken up yet, but the doctors insisted it was only a matter of time. The reason he hadn't regained consciousness, according to them, was because his head injury had a lasting effect on the functions of his brain.

"He's healing well, though. There should be no lasting problems. It'll take awhile for everything to heal completely, but it will eventually. He was very lucky; most people wouldn't have survived that."

"What about this," John asked, gently turning Sam's forearm over to show the gauze wrapped tightly around it, also seeing the tiny figure of the scorpion in Sam's grasp. He couldn't say anything in front of the nurse, but John's face whitened considerably more than it already was, and he shot a glare at Dean.

"We're not sure about that," the woman replied. "Sometimes we get people with symbols carved into their skin. But we've never come across this particular one before."

"Sam's not a cult member or anything," Dean assured her. "That much I can promise you."

"I wasn't making any assumptions, Mr. Winchester. It may be or it may not be that they were self-inflicted."

"They weren't."

"The forearm seems to be the oldest injury, the one inflicted first, and if it turns out they _were_--"

"There's no 'if.'"

"Fine, then. I just wanted to inform you that it was a major outlet for the blood loss because it hit an artery. We've stopped the bleeding and bandaged him up pretty well. He'll probably have a scar there for awhile, though. Depending on how well it heals, it might be permanent." Great. Sam would have to live with a memento from Hell.

"Thank you, doctor." The second she stepped out of the doorway, John turned on Dean.

"I thought I told you never to take that off, much less give it to anyone but yourself," he hissed, his eyes filled with an emotion Dean could surmise was a cross between anger and panic. He was pulling the pendant by the chain out of Sam's hand, holding it out for Dean. He didn't take it.

"Paranoid much, dad?"

"Do you realize that you could be responsible for Sam's death as well as your own?"

"What?"

"This could be the difference between life and death for you."

"That's why Sam needs it a hell of a lot more than me."

"You don't get it!" John practically shouted. "It was meant for one person, that's it! No trades, nothing! It could have disastrous consequences for anyone else!"

"I'm not sure I'm the person it was for. It hasn't exactly brought me luck or anything. Remember how I got electrocuted and almost died?"

"It doesn't protect against stupidity, Dean. Now take it." Dean took the pendant, holding it in the same way John had, by the chain, never touching the actual figure, as if it would infect him the second it came into contact with his skin.

"I'm getting coffee," Dean said, his voice sour, his pride stung by John's insult. It wasn't like Sam was going anywhere and he was out of the immediate danger zone anyway. Dean wouldn't miss anything; he wasn't leaving any time soon.Once he got outside, he spun the necklace around, wrapping it around his four main fingers, and stared at it for a few seconds. It was warm against his skin, probably from Sam's body heat, but slowly he could feel the temperature climb in it, the metal soon reaching a level at which it probably should have melted. It was burning into his skin now, and he hastened to get it away from his flesh as soon as possible.

"What the hell!" he yelled, letting it clatter to the floor. It had never done this before, never shown any sign of being more than a chunk of molded metal. But now it was suddenly turning on him, and it seemed like that might have been the sort of reaction John was trying to guard _himself_ against, figuring that since Dean had kept it so long it had adapted to him. But it hadn't.

There was either something his father hadn't told him about or something had gone wrong. Maybe Dean had done something wrong, but there wasn't any way he could see to fix it. His father would just yell at him some more if he found out, so he grabbed a few paper towels, wrapped the necklace firmly within the folds, and stuck it in his pocket, ignoring the small area of burnt flesh still left on the palm of his hand.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days Dean continued having nightmares. Normal nightmares, though, of that he was sure, but bad enough to make Dean try to avoid sleep altogether. 

Which was why Dean currently was bringing coffee back upstairs for himself and John. He needed the caffeine; his body was basically running off of it. For the past few days his dreams had progressed and kept getting worse and worse, until he barely slept at all. They all seemed to come around full circle back to the dream where Sam had died, been resurrected, and turned homicidal. He could see the black eyes gazing up at him from the deathly pale face, demonic and cold.

Sam had been transferred to his own room the day after Dean's dream just as the doctor had promised, and since then Dean and John had barely left his side, Dean especially. John and Deena alternated with food duty while Dean sat with Sam. Deena stayed at a hotel down the street, coming to sit with them for hours at a time. One time when John was getting take-out he tested his theory on the necklace. She had the same problem as he did, but Dean got it away from her skin before it caused any burns. She had no idea what it did or why it was reacting that way, and he kindly asked her not to mention it to his father.

He couldn't stop worrying about what Sam would wake up as. He never wanted to see Sam's black eyes again, and he was sure Sam didn't want to go through that either. Dean had taken it as his personal duty to make sure nothing hurt Sam, not even himself. He remained tense and on his guard almost twenty-four hours a day. He was unable to relax in his surroundings anyway. The room was identical to the one in his dream. In fact, he was starting to wonder if it _was_ the same one.

John and Dean didn't talk much, and even when they did it was for only the necessary things. They stayed away from the topics relating to the events of the last month. Because of that, things had been pretty simple and straightforward. At least, they had been until Dean walked through the hospital room door to see his father discussing something with the nurse.

"Dad?" Dean felt a chill setting into the bottom of his stomach. "Is he alright?" John and the doctor turned around. The doctor spoke first.

"Samuel is—"

"Sam," Dean corrected automatically. Before the doctor continued, John cut him off.

"Hold on, Dean. I'll explain in a minute." He turned back to the doctor.

"Dad—"

"Dean, _hold on._"

_Fine, _Dean thought spitefully. _He can get his own coffee from now on. _He hated being left out of conversations, especially when they involved him or Sam.

The doctor continued talking to John, and Dean couldn't hear anything except a few unrelated words. John nodded and gave her a small smile, which was only wiped off his face as she exited the room, turning to face Dean.

"Jesus, I stay with him every day and I finally get up for ten minutes to get coffee and something happens? I'm starting to think Sam doesn't like me very much."

"It wasn't anything big. He didn't stop breathing or anything."

"He'd better have not. Because if he dies again I'm going to bring him back to life just so I can kill him myself."

"He said something." Dean was immediately alert. That could mean anything.

"Is he—?"

"Does he look awake to you?" John nodded his head in Sam's direction. He hadn't moved an inch. Dean shook his head, his heart sinking.

"She said he could be up any time now. They don't think it'll be much longer, and once he wakes up they want to keep him here to monitor him."

"Did you catch what it was he said?" Dean asked.

"No." John said.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing specific."

"This is why I shouldn't have left. This shit is what I'm for."

"Well, whatever it is," John said. "At least part of it wasn't English." Dean looked up at his father.

"It's not _what_?"

"It's not English," John said, with a bit more certainty this time. "I don't know the last part; I had to leave to get the nurse, but I don't think he got finished with whatever he was saying."

"Well, if it's not English,then what the hell is it?" Sam didn't know any languages other than English. At least, not that Dean knew of.

"I think it was Latin."

"Why the hell would Sam be talking in Latin? Since when can he speak Latin?"

"I don't know. But we know that it's an ancient language, used in exorcisms and rituals of all sorts. Maybe it's linked to whatever the hell is doing this to him and the demon too. Maybe he's trying to tell us something, but this is the only way he can get through."

"Any idea what it means for him?"

"No idea whatsoever. But I know who might."

* * *

"Why must your entire family always wake me up in the middle of the night?" 

"Sorry," John apologized, as Dean leaned over to his shoulder to listen in on the conversation.

"Did something happen? Is Sam alright? He's not—"

"No, no, he's fine. They say he's doing well."

"Well, then, you'd better have a damn good reason for waking me up at three in the morning."

"He's talking in his sleep."

"So?" Missouri said, sounding sleepy and irritated. "Sometimes people talk when they sleep. It's a good sign; it means he could wake up at any time now."

"In Latin."

"That could be a coincidence."

"Sam doesn'tspeak Latin."

"Do you know _what_ he was saying?" Dean looked up at John with his eyebrows raised in a questioningly cocky manner.

"No," John said grudgingly.

"Did Dean hear anything?"

"Dean wasn't there."

"You finally got him out of the room? How'd you do it? I know he's been worried sick. You know, he tries to act—"

Dean leaned over to speak in the cell phone. "You know, Dean is right here, and he can hear every word you're saying. Now, can we stop referring to Dean in third person? He doesn't like people talking about him behind his back." Missouri paused for a second, and then continued like nothing had happened.

"Has he said anything since then?"

John shook his head. "No."

"Well, what do you expect me to tell you? You call me up at three in the morning to see if I can make sense of why Sam's speaking Latin in his sleep, and you don't even know what he's saying? How do you even know he's speaking Latin?"

John opened his mouth to speak, and before he even formed a syllable she had cut him off. "Look, see if he says something again. Try to write it down next time." John tried to speak again, but she continued. "I'm going back to sleep." She hung up.

Dean tried to hold back the laughter that was threatening. Finally a snort escaped, and John turned angrily

"Shut up, Dean."

"No, I'm sorry. It's just—" he laughed again, and the serious look on John's face only made it harder to stop. He needed something to break the deadly serious atmosphere. "So…" he began, trying to change the subject. "Any idea why our first doctor ran out on us? I haven't seen her around since then." John jumped on the opportunity to change the subject.

"All they said was that it was some sort of misunderstanding. She thought I was someone else."

"Some misunderstanding. She looked like she was about to pass out. Who was the person she thought you were, some sort of convict?" He paused for a second. "Oh my god, what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Well, then, who does she think you are? Maybe it _is_ you. This could be serious."

Grudgingly, John answered. "She thought I was a person called Denny Duquette, a heart patient who died a month ago. Apparently she was his fiancée." Dean couldn't help commenting on it.

"Wait, so you're saying a drop-dead gorgeous girl like her fell in love with someone who looks exactly like you, who was dying of heart failure? Just when you think you've figured them out, then they come out and surprise you."

"Hey!"

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just; things are like a freaking soap opera around here.I mean, with the whole Derek and Meredith thing at the prom, and…"

"Who and who?"

"Oh, Derek and Meredith. You see, about two years ago she and him had a one-night stand. That was before she knew he had a wife. Then his wife showed up, the red-head, and then things totally went down the crapper. But a month ago, they had sex again at the 'prom' or whatever it was, and his wife hasn't found out yet, but it's only a matter of time, and I'm just waiting for the moment, because that there is good entertainment."

"Wait, his wife doesn't know, but you know?"

"When you sit in the same hospital day after day with a comatose brother, you learn things."

"We don't know that he's in a coma."

"Oh, please," Dean said exasperatedly. "Does he look like he's waking up anytime soon?" John and Dean turned their heads to Sam's face. "Sam, can you say something for me? Can you hear me? Can you just say something to prove dad's theory?" Naturally, Sam didn't move an inch.

"He could wake up at any time. He has to sooner or later." Dean leaned back in his seat.

"Hopefully sooner rather than later. I think these people are driving me insane. It's only entertaining for a certain amount of time, and then their bickering kind of starts to get on you nerves.

* * *

Two days later Dean woke with a start from one of the nightmares that had become part of his daily schedule. 

"Hey, Dean," John greeted in their normal everyday routine as Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes, only half-awake.

"What time is it?"

"Half past nine AM." Dean slumped back into his seat. "Well, at least you got more time than yesterday."

"It sure as hell didn't feel like it. Sam gets to sleep twenty-four hours a day and I get twenty minutes tops."

"Sam had his chest ripped open. He gets the privilege to 'sleep in.'" Dean rolled his eyes, frustrated, as he hit his head against the wall.

"Well, if I'm going to make it another twenty-four hours I'm going to need coffee. Is it my day or yours?"

"Yours. But if you're still tired, then you can sleep and—"

"No, I'll be fine. I'm up; there's no going back now. Which place this time?"

"Anything but the crap down in the cafeteria."

"They all suck anyway. I'll check out the new diner down the street, Luke's. We haven't been there before, right?"

"It's been two weeks. I think it's safe to say we're both past the point where we care."

"Damn straight. Alright, Luke's it is. The usual?" John nodded. Dean got to his feet, grabbed his cell phone, wallet, and jacket, and walked out the door with a simple "See you soon," just as their unspoken everyday agenda called for.

"Bye, Dean," John said, completing the ritual.

* * *

Much to Dean's chagrin it started drizzling during his five block walk to the diner. He jogged the rest of the way, rushing to get there ahead of the unavoidable downpour. 

He got the coffee and decided to stay until the rain stopped. He dried off his jacket and observed the people in the small restaurant. It was disturbingly cozy, the way that had always made Dean feel uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite understand.

He knew why Sam had wanted to be normal, but looking at the place he knew neither of them would ever be able to go back. He would never be able to fit in with everyone else, and neither, now, would Sam. They were all in too deep to go back.

The rain subsided into a drizzle again within ten minutes and Dean couldn't get out of there fast enough. He almost spilled coffee over a cute brunette as he turned the corner and heard his phone beep loudly. He apologized profusely; she smiled, being friendly in return as he set one of the Styrofoam cups down on a bench, holding the other one in his left hand, and pulled the phone out with his right.

"Yes," he greeted, out of breath, as he moved under the archway to shield him from the rain.

"Dean?" His father's voice came from the other end of the phone. The tone of his voice immediately had Dean's full attention.

"What is it?" Then he was greeted with the words that he had been waiting for the entire past few weeks.

"Sam's awake." Dean felt the coffee cup nearly slip out of his grasp as his heart skipped a beat.

**Author's Note: I'm back! Sorry for the wait, but the first week of school is always a bitch. Anyway, Sam's awake! Yay! But remember, with this story there always seems to be a twist, no matter how small.**


	20. Coherency

**Chapter 20: Coherency**

Forty minutes earlier John had been sitting, somewhat off guard, when it had happened. The beeping of Sam's heart monitor sped up more and more, his breathing became quick and shallow, and his head tossed and turned uncomfortably from one side to another as if he were having a bad dream.

"Sam?" John said. No response came, and the beeping accelerated even more. "Sammy?" He said, his voice rising in both volume and pitch, something that only happened when he was genuinely scared. He practically leaped from his chair to kneel by Sam's side. He enveloped Sam's cold hand with his own.

"Sammy," he soothed. "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here. You'll be fine; just calm down." It seemed to work; the beeping decelerated into an almost-steady pace.

"There you go. I'm right here when you're ready to get up. If you can just open your eyes for me, please." Sam's breathing was smoothing out, returning to normal also, but his brow was furrowed in concentration.

John figured he should call a nurse to check out Sam to make sure he was alright. He turned around to see if anyone was nearby to ask outside, but before he could take one step a firm pressure was grasping his wrist. He turned around to see Sam with his eyes open, looking perfectly awake. His eyes seemed to be fluctuating between black and their normal brown. It looked like two colors of paint being mixed and swirled in a bucket.

"Dad," he said, sounding almost eerily calm as he sat up as best he could, the pain setting in within a matter of seconds.

"Sam, you have to break through this."

Sam's eyes glazed over, but the next second his brow was furrowed in concentration, his eyes lightening a shade. "You can't help me, dad. I have to do this alone." The blackness was seeping back into the irises.

"I won't let them have you. Sam, I know you're in there; I know you can hear me. I know you're fighting, but I need you to pull through this."

"He's not strong enough. He never has been. He's weak and pathetic, and if it doesn't happen now then it sure as hell will—" Sam was cut off as he cried out. He gasped and doubled over in pain. "No!" Sam forced out through clenched teeth. "I won't! Not now! Not again!" When he looked up at John again, his eyes were brown again, with a small ring of black around the pupils.

"Dad?" Sam's eyes were wild and disoriented. He was gasping for air and his heart monitor was accelerating again. He wasn't able to keep his sitting position anymore, pitching forward straight into John's arms. He made a pained face, holding back a yell as he made impact.

"Dad? 's that really you?" John took a few seconds before he pushed Sam away a bit to see his face, memorizing all of Sam's changed features: the more colorful cheeks, the opened eyes, the steady breathing, the emotion in Sam's eyes as he recognized his father.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's me." Sam smiled weakly back as John tried to lower him as gently and carefully back onto the pillows as he could.

"Where 'm I?" Sam asked, his voice slurred, his eyes unfocused.

"You're in a hospital. You've been unconscious for the past two weeks."

"No, I can't." Sam shook his head, his eyes wide with what John could translate as shock. From the glazed over look in them, he could tell Sam wasn't totally there. "They can't have… this is some sort of… trick…dream…this can't…be real."

"Sam, calm down. Calm down. What's the last thing you can remember?" Sam was still breathing heavily, the heart monitor beeping wildly in the background.

"'I…don't…" He had to concentrate too hard on his breathing from then on to continue.

"Alright, Sam. Hold on. I'm going to get a nurse. They're going to help you. I'll only be gone for a minute." Sam nodded, blinking in a tired way. John gave Sam's hand one last squeeze before he turned around, but Sam's grip tightened.

"Dad, wait," he whispered through the gasps, his face turning whiter by the second.

"Sammy, I'm going to get someone to help you right now."

"Dad, it's coming back. I…I have to tell you…something first…I don't know if…I'll remember later…I keep forgetting things..."

"Can you tell me what you were saying awhile ago? You were talking in Latin." Sam inhaled sharply before he answered.

"I was… talking?"

"Yes, what were you saying? I didn't catch it then."

"I was…" he closed his eyes, his breathing still making him seem on the verge of hyperventilating. Sam's body went slack again, slumping back weakly into his pillows.

"Sam, can you hear me? Can you remember anything?" Sam's eyes roamed aimlessly around the interior of the room. "Hold on, Sam. Just hold on. We're going to help you. I'll just be gone for a second." Sam nodded almost unnoticeably as he desperately tried to slow his own breathing down. John turned to get the nurse.

* * *

"They called it a panic attack. Theyonly let me in a few minutes ago." Dean could hear the impatience in his father's voice over the cell phone as he seated himself down again in the warm diner with its overly-friendly guests. "Dean, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to find the nearest library or anywhere with a computer. I have some sentences I need you to translate. He's talking again, and it's making me nervous. I have a bad feeling about this. After a few minutes of Latin he starts talking in English. I don't know what he's saying, I keep waking him up when he gets to that point and he can't remember a thing. I think it'll give us some clue what's going on when we find out what he's saying. Call me when you get something to write on." 

"Dad, I need to be there right now. He's awake, and I think—"

"I'm asking you to do this for me, Dean. Do you understand?"

Dean gritted his teeth, hating his father with every fiber of his being, but still forced out a stiff, "yes, sir," before hanging up.

He kicked a bench once he got outside, venting all his anger into the force of the impact.

All that he got was one hell of a sore toe.

* * *

"Can I help you, young man?" A mid-fifties librarian with a tight bun wound over the top of her head greeted him from her computer next to the door. 

"I'm just here to—" he began, but the librarian held a hand up to silence him.

"Wipe your feet, please." Dean looked down to see a welcome mat placed at the entrance. He had never seen one at a library, but quickly did as she said, hoping that he could get this over with so he could get back to Sam. The librarian nodded in approval after he had complied with her request.

"_Now_," she said briskly, "how may I help you?"

"Can I use the computers?"

"_May_ I use the computers?"

"Huh?"

"Your grammar was incorrect."

"Look, I'm twenty-six. I've been to two libraries today, both of which were closed because of the storm. I have taken five bus rides and have walked halfway across the town. My brother is in the hospital, and my father wants me to do this before I go back there to see him, so the faster I get done here the faster I can see him. So can we please not waste time with grammar? Because, frankly, I don't give a crap. Now _can _I use the computers?"

The librarian nodded, taken aback. Dean shot her his most charming smile.

"Thank you."

Two minutes later Dean was sitting in front of a computer screen. He peeled his new wet jacket off of his back, shook his hair to dry it out, and turned the monitor on.

He quickly logged on to the best search engine and searched for a Latin translator. He skipped through all of the ones that he would have to translate word by word and would take too long; he browsed through five pages of results to find the one he was looking for. Wasting no time, he tried to remember what pocket he had put the paper he had written the sentences down on while he was riding in the bus.

When he thought he had lost it, he cursed loudly, causing the stern librarian and a group of about six high-school students to look up in interest. The librarian glared at him, chastising him with her eyes for saying it out loud.

"What?" he said in response. "They're teenagers. It's not like it's anything they haven't heard before." The librarian continued glaring, still warning him not to do it again.

"Oh," he said, smacking himself on the head, turning to check the pockets of his jacket. Sure enough, the paper was in there, crumpled and wet but still decipherable.

"Great, Dean. It was there the whole fu—"

"Young man!" The librarian looked like there should have been steam coming out of her ears. Dean was a little frightened by the ruler she was now holding in her hand, smacking it against her palm threateningly.

"—_freaking_ time."

* * *

"Well, he seems to be regaining consciousness, but he's having trouble keeping coherent. He doesn't know what day it is, where he is, or how this happened to him," the doctor said, explaining the obvious. 

"Is he going to be alright?"

"He had a panic attack. Don't worry; it's normal sometimes for people in his situation. The temporary memory loss could be just the shock of whatever happened to him setting in. The mind tends to block out traumatizing memories if they're bad enough. But the chances are that everything will come back within the next few days. That's why we like to have family and friends there for them, to encourage them and to let them know that they're safe." John nodded in understanding.

"What about physically?"

"He still has a fever that we're worried about, but as long as it doesn't go up any farther it shouldn't pose a problem. I'll leave you alone with him." She smiled in the normal way and left, closing the door behind her.

Sam wasn't awake. Not really, at least. His head tossed form side to side in a fevered way. His eyes occasionally flickered open restlessly, sometimes brown, sometimes black, sometimes that unusual mixture of both. He seemed to notice when John pulled his chair closer to the hospital bed. His head stopped turning and his eyes turned back to brown temporarily.

"Dad?" he whispered hoarsely as John held his hand comfortingly.

"Yeah, it's me, Sam. Can you remember much?" Sam closed his eyes, concentrating. It was the most coherent he had looked in the fast few hours. "Sam?" John asked, concerned when Sam didn't answer. "Can you hear me?" Sam's eyelids flickered distractedly. "You're alright. We found you. I really need to know the last thing you remember."

"I…killed Dean." John shook his head, not understanding. Then it came to him. The dream, or vision, or whatever. John was betting on vision, though of what wasn't exactly clear. "Thanks… for doing that."

"For doing what?" John was already having trouble following along.

"You…helped me…when I killed him…you shot me." John felt the blood rush to his face, his whole body going cold.

"I did what?" He forced out through frozen lips.

"You…killed me…I died…thank you." Sam frowned, opening his eyes, cringing from the bright light. "I'm dead, then?" he asked, his words still slurred. "But…does that mean you're dead too? What 'bout Dean?"

"I'm not dead. Neither are you. It wasn't real."

"What wasn't real?"

"Sam, you dying wasn't real."

"I died?"

"Jesus Christ. Sam—" He was cut off by the beeping of his phone. He flipped it open, irritated, and greeted, "This had better be good news, because Sam doesn't even know his own name anymore."

"Bad news, dad. Really bad news. It doesn't matter if he knows his name or not. It doesn't matter if he thinks he's the Purple freaking People Eater, we need to get out of here, and now."

"Whoa, Dean, slow down. You're sounding less understandable than Sam, and he couldn't tell who the Purple People Eater is."

"Just make sure he's awake and out of there."

"DEAN!" John practically yelled, causing Sam to cringe next to him, already slipping back out of consciousness. "Sorry, Sam. I'll be right back; I just need to talk to Dean really quickly."

"Dean?" Sam said, sounding more awake all of a sudden, looking as if the name sounded familiar, but he was just trying to place it to a title.

"Yes, it's Dean. Get some rest, Sam." Sam nodded, almost like he had when he had been told to go back to sleep when he was a child, late at night, and he closed his eyes, falling asleep almost immediately. John turned his attention back to the phone. "Now tell me," he hissed, trying to keep his voice low for Sam but still sharp, "what the hell is going on. Why do we have to leave now?"

"I did what you told me. I looked up what he was saying. He was trying to communicate, we were right about that part. What we weren't right about was _who_ he was communicating with."

**Author's Note: Have I mentioned how much I hate school? If I haven't, then there it is. No more on the subject.**

**Anyway, another random subject: I went to see Little Miss Sunshine today. I LOVED IT! HILARIOUS! Yeah, I recommend it.**

**On the subject of this story, then I'll just let you know that I have the next six chapters done so I should be updating a bit more frequently. SHOULD, so no promises. I like to have written at least four chapters in advance and I'm writing this one that has taken me four days to write and I STILL hate it. All I have to do is get through that one chapter and I'll be on my way. That's what I have to keep telling myself. It's mor of an episodic thing that may seem like it has NOTHING to do with the plot of this story at all, but it does. And you guys have no idea what I'm talking about, but still... It's kind of my attempt to lighten the atmosphere before going into some serious dramatic shit. Like, really. I'm actually looking forward to that part, but I have to get through this fucking chapter! Sorry, I'm venting my frustration. Again, sorry. x-)**


	21. What Do You Know?

**Chapter 21: What Do You Know?**

"Do we have any idea when—"

"None whatsoever. But it was lucky that you kept waking him up. He never got a chance to tell them our exact location." Dean paced nervously along the sidewalk, not caring that he was already soaked and standing in the rain, using a newspaper to shield his head. "We don't need to take any chances; they'll figure it out with his help or not, so I say we just haul ass as far away as possible while he recovers."

"He has a fever of 102.9. The doctors aren't going to want to let him out."

Yeah, well, they can just get over that. You can't keep someone against their will. As long as he's coherent enough to agree with what you say, which he will, no doubt, they have to let him go. Give him a few hours to sleep, though, then wake him up and get him out of there."

"I'll see what I can do. Again, he's still trying to pull through this. I'm wondering if he's ready." Dean kicked a wall in frustration. The next bus wouldn't come for another twenty minutes; Dean hated waiting.

"I'm at the bus stop. I'll get there as fast as I can."

"No, I need you to get a car, some form of transportation. Something cheap; we'll probably have to ditch it to throw them off anyway."

"No, dad. No. I have to be there for him. He needs both of us now."

"It won't do us much good if he's perfectly healthy but we have no way to get out of here and they get him anyway. I also need you to get weapons, rock salt, clothes, anything we'll need. Just stay where you are for tonight. It's already six, you won't be able to get the stuff and get back here before midnight."

"I'm coming back. He's awake and he's going to wonder why I'm not there."

"Look, Dean. I can't have this argument. We need those things."

"Then_ you_ get them!"

"You're not missing anything, Dean. He probably can't even remember his own birthday."

It came out before Dean meant it to. He never would have said it if he had just though beforehand, but he was just so mad he had to. "Like you would even know if he were right or not." Then he hung up.

* * *

John sat in stunned silence. He had a response ready and everything, but Dean had hung up before he had given him a chance. It was no use trying to call back any time soon; John knew his oldest son well enough to expect what was coming.

Instead he called Missouri. Whether Dean was pissed off or not he would listen. He would do anything if it meant helping Sam. John had to keep up his end of the bargain, which meant he had to help Sam get through this weird phase.

"Hello?" Missouri's voice greeted on the other end. "Missouri Mosely—"

"It's John."

"Hello, John. It's nice to know you're finally calling me at a reasonable time. Is Dean there?"

"No."

"How's Sam holding up?"

"He's holding up. He woke up for a few minutes, but he didn't really know what was going on."

"Was it our Sam or their Sam?" John's hand clenched into a fist. He hated the term 'their Sam'. There was no 'their Sam'.

"It was ours. He was having trouble keeping it that way. But Dean just called me. He translated what Sam was saying. They'll be coming for him and we have to get him out."

"How in the hell are you planning on doing that? He's not coherent enough to go anywhere. He's fighting this off and it's taking up most of his energy."

"Is there any way we can help him out?" There was a long pause on the other end of the line as Missouri thought it through.

"Encouragement?"

"Other than that?"

"It's really up to him. Once it's far enough back his subconscious should be able to put at least some of those borders up. It'll be easier. All he has to do is get this one last surge back and he should be okay for awhile."

"And there's nothing I can do?"

"Make sure he's not alone. Make sure you're supporting him. For the love of god don't let that boy give up on you." There was another pause, and John found he had started tapping on the armrests. "Bring Dean in."

"Thank you Missouri," he said, layering on the sarcasm.

"He has a better connection with Sam in these situations. Hell, seeing Dean crying is enough to shock someone back to reality just to see if it _really is_ physically possible."

"He's two to three hours away, getting a car and equipment. I guess that means I'll actually have to take care of my son. It's not exactly new to me."

"I never would have guessed."

John hung up on her, only to start dialing again.

* * *

Dean sat on the bus, still fuming. He must have shown how pissed he was, judging by the looks the other passengers were giving him. They always looked away once Dean tried to catch their eye. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to getting strange glances anyway. He knew he stood out to other people. They couldn't put their finger on it, but they could sense he would never fit in.

Sam was a different story. People trusted him, listened to him, told him stuff. All he had to do was smile and a person would spill their deepest secrets. People never seemed to understand why someone like Sam was traveling around with someone like Dean. They were so obviously opposites, but Dean had always considered it a good thing. They made up for each other's weaknesses, filled in where the other was lacking. Two halves of one piece, neither able to truly live up to their potential without the other.

Dean stopped his thoughts right there, and not just because his phone rang. He realized how close to the Charmed plot he was getting to in his mind. He shuddered at the thought.

He flipped open the cell phone and put it up to his ear before he realized that he didn't want to talk to his father.

"Dad, I'm doing what you—" John cut him off.

"May 2nd, 1983, seven-o-six A.M. It was a Saturday, dark and rainy. You were mad because you didn't like not having the attention. You saw him for the first time at seven twenty. I brought you in and picked you up so you could sit next to your mom. You asked about him, and we told you his name was Sam. You smiled, leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and said, 'hello, baby Sammy. I'm your big brother, Dean.' And then he opened his eyes and looked at you. You were the first person he saw."

"May 2nd, huh?"

"Yeah."

"What was his first word?"

"No. That was his first word."

"What was his favorite subject in school?" When John hesitated, Dean continued. "Literature. What was the name of his best friend in high school?" Still no answer. "Todd, though he never saw him again after we had to leave. What was the name of the first girl he had a crush on when we moved to Connecticut?" Silence again. "Rory. What did he want to go to college to study? What did he say when he first found out he had powers? What did he do when Jess died? What did he say before he left and sacrificed his life for ours? What do _you_ know about him that happened past his six month birthday?" More silence.

"I thought not. Call me when he's up." And for the second time that day he hung up on his father.

* * *

John knew Dean was right. He didn't know anything about Sam past that night. He had never gotten the chance to get to know his kids; they had never been his top priority, and he hated himself for that. He knew he wasn't the best father, but to not even know what he wanted to be when he grew up? The mini Dean inside his head wouldn't forgive him for that. He wouldn't ever forget.

"Jesus Christ, I've already fucked up everything else. Can I get one thing right?" He half expected Sam to tell him to shut up, but he was already out. He still looked like he was suffering from a severe nightmare. His eyes were rolling in his head, his face was flushed, and a thin sheen of sweat was on his forehead.

"I think this will probably count as the worst week ever, what do you think?" John asked. "You don't have to answer, obviously." Sam muttered something in his sleep, sounding far from calm.

"Everything's alright, Sam. I'm here." He had been doing so much of that type of talk it had become habit, though it was still working well. Sam quieted down a little bit once he heard John's voice.

"I've always hated hospitals. I know Dean does too, and I'm sure after this you'll be a member of the club.

"Not that I'm saying you were never— God, I don't even know how to talk to you when you're unconscious." John let out a nervous chuckle, more for his own benefit than Sam's. "I mean, you probably can't even hear me anyway." He didn't know what to say in this situation, though he knew what he should do. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

* * *

Sam's mind was churning, hazy and chaotic. His head felt like it was being ripped in two by the different sides fighting for control. His mind knew something was wrong, that something was happening that shouldn't. There were two sets of commands going on in his mind, two things his consciousness was demanding his body to do. One was considerably more violent than the other. It didn't help when his father started talking.

_Can't he shut up for once in his life? Even when I'm in a hospital, supposed to be resting, he has to come in and give orders. _The urge to lunge up and wrap his hands around his father's throat was intensifying with each word that he spoke. The only thing holding him back was the fact that it would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. He couldn't summon up the concentration to heal over the wound. He couldn't even remember, but the angrier he got, the more it came back to him. The pain was dulling away, the anger slowly transforming back into a calmness that could only mean one thing.

It was back. Sam was fighting it with what little resistance he had, trying to remember who he was, why he was fighting in the first place. His father's voice was both helping and making it worse. The words and pleas were generic, which pissed him off even more, but he couldn't deny the genuine concern in his voice.

It was a losing battle, though. He was losing himself, everything tuning out around him, just as it went right before he would black out and wake up with nothing. He wouldn't be Sam Winchester anymore. He wouldn't be Dean's brother or John's son. When he was like that he didn't deserve the title.

He assured himself of what would happen if he did turn back. He had seen John kill him once; he had no doubt he would do it once again. In a way, both sides of him wanted to give in. The evil bastard wanted to give in to it for obvious reasons, but the real Sam just wanted to die.

_I'm counting on you, dad. All you have to do is shoot me just like you did last time. _He meant to say it out loud, but it just didn't come out. He couldn't lift a finger; his body was rigid, unmoving except for the occasional shiver sent down his spine as his body reacted to the invasion.

Sam took one last breath, preparing to let go, to black out and let it be over, silently apologizing to Dean for doing this to him again, but the next words he heard shocked him enough to bring him back to reality for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry for not being there for you all those years in college. But I'm here now."

_What did he just say? My father, John Winchester, actually cares about something other than himself? _But the good thought was promptly smothered.

_He doesn't care. He never cared about me, and he never will. Are you just scared, dad, or what?_

The way his mind was working reminded him of a few scenes he had seen in movies and television shows where the main character had the two figures, one on each shoulder, one in the form of a devil, one of an angel. He didn't consider himself an angel, far from it, but it did feel like the two extremes of his mind were doing battle with each other, demanding their say in the situation. His thoughts were starting to resemble a conversation. It was the weirdest thing he had ever experienced, and he paused to appreciate just how absurd the situation was.

_He's not scared, _the good side of him insisted. _Dad, please, _he thought desperately, trying to communicate with his father without words. _Don't talk me out of it. Dean tried it, too. Why can't anyone understand?_

_Nobody will ever understand, _the dark side responded, the black eyes gleaming even in the dark of his unconsciousness._ Nobody will ever care. I'm all I have now._

_And that's not enough. I have to end this now. I have to stop this. I have to let dad kill me. _

_I won't die. Dad won't kill me._

_He will. He has to. He'll always be there. He understands. And at least Dean doesn't have to be here when it happens._

_Give in. Go back to them. They can help._

_No, they won't._

_Then what can I do?_

_I have to do this. I have to die. I have to let him kill me._

_Then why am I fighting so hard? I need to give in. Go back to what I want to be._

_I just have to hear his voice one more time._

And then, as if in answer to his prayer, his father's voice broke through the fog.

"I called Missouri. She said that you're probably still fighting this off. Listen, Sam. All you have to do is do this one last time and you'll be okay. I know you can do it. You're a Winchester, through and through. You're a fighter, Sam. You can't just give up now. I know some day that I'm going to have to let go, just like every parent needs to let go of their child. But it's different. I don't want to be the one to bury you. And if Dean has to stand there and watch them put you into the ground forever—do you know what that'll do to him? He's barely made it this far. You can't do that to him. You can't do that to us.

"I wish I could do something. I wish I could take this away. I wish it had been me instead of you. Believe me, if I could help you with this in any way, I would. But I can't. I just can't.

"_You_ have to do this," John said firmly. "You're the only one that can help you now. You have to be strong. I know you can. If you made it this far you can. All I need you to do is pull through this one last time. And if you think you can just give up, then maybe I didn't raise you right." Sam had so many possible answers to that question that it wasn't even funny. "I need you to do this. For me. For Dean. For yourself. For all of us. We need you; you have no idea how much we need you. Please, Sam. If we ever meant something to you as a family, then you have to do this. For all of us."

**Author's Note: Okay, first order of business: Reviews. Please review, people. I know school is starting up and everything, but if I can write a chapter every week, then I'm sure you guys can write one sentence. Pretty please:) **

**Next thing: I finally finished that chapter. The one I hated. HALLELUJAH!**


	22. More Than You Know

**Chapter 22: More Than You Know**

**Author's Note: If you haven't checked it out yet, I edited the last chapter so I could add a little bit to John's speech. Not a big deal, but if you want to, check it out.**

Meanwhile, Dean was about to blow someone's freaking brains out.

"Look, we know this car is shit. Don't screw with me, man. I know what I'm doing."

"That's the best offer you'll be getting," the man insisted stubbornly.

"That car, if you can call it that, will not last me five minutes."

"That's the final price."

"Is there anything else you have that's _not_ a total heap of junk?"

"That depends what your definition of 'junk' is."

"This! It's old, and—"

"It's not old, it's vintage. Classic."

That flipped the switch in Dean's mind. "Classic! You don't know what that means! I _had_ a classic. A '67 Chevy Impala that still ran like it was brand new!"

"You have an Impala?"

"Yeah, I'm just here to get a backup car!" He said sarcastically. "I _had_ an Impala, dumbass." The man looked briefly around the shop, and pointed to another car, which was equally crappy.

"Well, what about this?" Dean turned exasperatedly to face the man once more.

"Do I look like a Firebird type to you? Who do you take me for?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam woke up feeling like he had slept for weeks, which was entirely possible for all he knew. His mind was sluggish, telling his eyes to open, but the command took a few minutes to process. When he did, the low light from the bedside lamp felt like it was burning its way into his pupils and through his brain. He squinted, turning his head as best he could to avoid the brightness until the pain passed.

Still blinking, he surveyed the room he was in. It was bland and white and he was surrounded by machines, one making an annoying beeping sound. Wires and tubes wound around his right wrist; his left felt strangely heavy. He tried to think of any instance in which he would need to be in a hospital, but the truth was he couldn't remember anything except for some fuzzy details, still images standing out. He saw Meg, a girl named Nora smiling at him from a stool by the bar, a dark room, the interior of a Honda, Dean's face as he turned to see Sam for the first time in weeks.

"Dean?" He rasped out, and quickly cringed at the pain that occurred after he spoke.

"Shit," he hissed between his teeth, the only way he could speak without it hurting. He swallowed, willing himself back to coherency, as he tried to remember what had happened. He couldn't.

"Sam," a concerned voice asked. A face appeared in front of him, and once his eyes focused he recognized the familiar features of his father's face.

"Dad?"

"Oh, thank god." John was hurriedly feeling his forehead for a temperature. "Is that you? Really you?" Sam had to think a moment as the absurdity of the question hit him.

"Um…I think so."

"How do you feel?"

"Guess," Sam said, smiling though it hurt to do so. John smiled back, and Sam tried to ignore the teariness of his dad's eyes for both their sakes. He started to pull his arms up to push himself into a sitting position, but John placed a hand firmly on his chest, holding him down.

"I wouldn't do that. You almost died; it's going to hurt like hell."

"I almost died?" John's eyebrow's shot up.

"You can't remember that?"

"Not really. I don't remember much at all." And then it hit him. Everything came back at once.

"Oh," he breathed, the memories feeling like they were crushing him. Could all that have happened in that amount of time?

"Sam, calm down, you're breathing is weird, your heart rate is going up."

"I'm fine," he insisted breathlessly. "Did I— Dean! Is he alright? Did I hurt him? I remember seeing him—in a hotel. Is he here?"

"No," John assured him, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "He's alright. He's not here, though."

"Where is he, then?"

"Sam, calm down. He's getting a car, as far as I can tell."

Sam took a few deep breaths, smiling weakly, trying to be strong for his father, who had never been the best in situations requiring emotional support. Sam had learned how to take care of matters like that by himself.

"I'm fine," he said, slumping back against the annoyingly lumpy pillows and closing his eyes. "I promise, it's gone. For once, it's gone. Thanks, dad."

"You heard that?" John seemed surprised, embarassed, even.

"Yeah. It meant a lot."

_More than you know._

Sam kept his eyes closed, hardly daring to look at his father. Even though it had been a dream, even though John would never realize what had been said, Sam was still ashamed of himself.

_"I never was a human being to you. I was at best a soldier, at worst a dog, following you around, expected to follow orders, without a mind of my own. Did you ever care? Did you ever care about what I was going through? I wanted to go to college and you wanted me to stay. Of course, I was expected to do what you wanted, not what I wanted. When I didn't, you told me to leave. You kicked me out of the family; you disowned me. You told me to stay gone, and now you suddenly want me back?"_

Sam tried to convince himself that the things he said were just a result of the anger, something just meant to upset. But he knew otherwise. He had always thought those things, during his darkest times, the times where he truly _had _thought his father didn't love him, and those were often.

_"I was never good enough for you," he forced out, his lips numb, trying to put as much venom into his voice as possible. He wanted to make sure his last moments stuck with John for the rest of his short, pathetic life. "Everything I did was never enough. You always hated me. You just finally had an excuse to get rid of me."_

He would never mean to hurt his father, or anyone for that matter. But it was true. Every word was true. Embellished to the extreme, but at the core, exactly how he felt. John had hurt Sam more than he knew. Nobody would ever know how much Sam had just wanted his father to be proud of him. How hard he had tried to make his father notice him and not Dean. But all his efforts had gone to waste. He knew that without giving in to the other side of him he would never be able to tell John about it. It was too hard.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He hated hospitals; he hated the way they smelled, the way they were always creepily clean, and the way that way too many people died there. He had technically come within an inch of dying there himself. That subject brought up another question that had been bugging him. "How long have I been here?" John took a moment to think.

"About a week. Not long."

"That must have been boring. Has Dean gone postal yet?"

"Not yet, but it was only a matter of time. You know how he is about hospitals."

"Oh yeah," Sam said, smiling. "You think he's nervous here, try to get him on a plane. I'm pretty sure there's no way in hell he's ever doing that again after the whole phantom traveler incident." A smile had started to creep over John's face and it looked like he was halfway between trying not to laugh and not to cry at the same time.

"What?" Sam asked curiously, but John just shook his head, and before he got a chance to answer the door opened. A young Indian girl walked in, clumsily trying not to spill coffee while trying to hold onto her bag with the other arm. She looked up, and her eyes immediately fell upon Sam. Her eyes widened and, flustered, she set her bag on a chair and her coffee on the table.

"I see you're up," she said, brushing her strangely long midnight black hair from her face. She acted as if she had seen him before, but he had no recollection of her whatsoever. His brow furrowed, he turned back to his father for some insight.

"Sam, this is Deena. She helped us find you." Sam nodded, smiling, and raised his good hand weakly to shake hers.

"Sam Winchester," he greeted. She strode forward to his bedside, smiling shyly back.

"I know. Dean's told me a lot about you." Already curious, he raised an eyebrow. Maybe a good story would distract him as he remembered what had happened. He smiled even wider through the mental and physical pain, strengthening the mask he knew he would be keeping for as long as necessary. He was pulled out of that train of thought when he saw the cast on his arm.

"What the hell did Dean do to my arm!"

**Author's Note: OK, Sam's back! But, as you can probably tell, he's going to be a little different. Some things have happened, and he's changed a bit more than I let on in this chapter.**

**Alright, people. Now, remember how Dean's getting a new car? Well, now's when reviews come in handy. I need YOU GUYS to vote for what car you want the new one to be. I have the following choices:**

**1. Pontiac GTO**

**2. Chevy Chevelle**

**3. Dodge Charger**

**Google it. I can't post the next chapter until I have a car type, and I'm going to need at least ten votes (I know, I know) or I can't post the next chapter. Sorry, but Dean's going to need to be driving a car and I need to know what it's going to be.**


	23. Highway to Hell

**Highway to Hell (aka Reunion)**

**Author's Note: Just in case anybody's wondering what Deena looks like (I'm not good at character descriptions) search on for Suleka Mathew. Her black-and-white picture seems like what I pictured Deena to look like. Just a little FYI.**

**-One day later-**

"You can't do this, dad!" Sam pulled away from Deena, trying his best to support himself, ignoring the pain in his chest.

"I have to do this. What other choice do we have?" Sam shook his head in denial. Barely five minutes before, when Sam had checked himself out of the hospital, Deena knew something was wrong. They knew where Sam was, and she and John had determined (against Sam's will, and with a little help from the Key of Solomon, the book Bobby had given them before his death) that if they were careful, someone with a similar signature might fool them long enough to allow Dean and Sam to get away.

"You can stay. You can live!"

"If I stay, then they'll come for you."

"Then we stay and fight." John laughed bitterly.

"Sam, be realistic," John said, looking directly into his son's eyes as he rested his hands on his shoulders to steady him. Sam knew it was true, but he had to find some way to stop his father.

"What about Dean? You can't die never having said goodbye."

"I'm not going to die."

"You don't know them like I do," Sam said seriously, and there was no doubt John knew exactly what Sam meant. Sam clarified anyway. "I was one of them. They're not stupid. They'll know it's you. You can't hold them off for long."

"That's why you can't waste any time."

"No!" The denial, shouted, hurt almost as much emotionally as physically. "I can't let you. Please," Sam said. He was officially begging. There was nothing he could do to stop John. If he wanted to leave, Sam didn't have the strength to hold him back. "We've spent months trying to find you. You can't leave now. Dean needs you. I need you." John flinched.

"That's why I have to do this," John muttered. "Dean will be here in five minutes. Tell him why I have to go. He'll understand. And, Sam," he said, his gaze forceful, "I promise you, I will not abandon you. I will not die."

"You can't promise that," Sam whispered. "_None of us_ can promise that. "

"I can. And you can promise me that if they do find you, don't give in to them. Don't let them take you. Fight them. Because if you don't, you're as good as dead. Now, I have to go." John turned around, intending to board the bus now parked at the stop. Suddenly at a loss for physical support, Sam wobbled a bit, a hand going to his chest, which had suddenly flared up. The world spun, but someone was at his side. Deena smiled up at him encouragingly.

"Dad," Sam whispered, his voice breaking the slightest bit. "Don't."

"I'm sorry, Sam. Tell Dean that I love him."

"Yeah," Sam said grudgingly. As much as he tried to ignore it, ever since he had been a kid, little details about the relationships in the Winchester family had stuck out at him.

_"Tell Dean that I love him."_

"I'll pass the message on," he said quietly.

_It didn't mean anything, Sam. You're overreacting._ Sam shook his head, which was already starting to hurt. His father was already a few feet away from him, and Sam called out before he really thought of what he was trying to say.

"Dad," he yelled. John spun around, waiting. "I didn't mean to," he said, his voice low, but he could tell that John had heard him. He sent Sam a look, wondering what he meant. "I know I never..." Sam struggled, afraid he wouldn't get it out. He had never been able to say it before. "I never...I never really became what you expected me to be. I just...I just wanted to be my own person. And now...about this whole thing...I really don't want you to hate me for this. Because I tried, dad...you have no idea how hard I fought them...but I just..." Sam bit his lip, trying not to break down. "I just couldn't...I wasn't strong enough. I'm not the strong one." He looked down at his feet so he didn't have to see his father's baffled expression.

John stood immobile, watching his son holding back his tears. A puzzled look on his face, he walked forward. "Look at me, Sam. _Look at me_." Sam lifted his gaze to his father's eyes, and for once John didn't look disappointed, didn't look cold. "You are _exactly_ what I wanted you to be. I never expected you to be anything. You are one of the strongest people I know, and you know what? If you couldn't fight it, then I'm sure that I wouldn't have been able to, and Dean wouldn't have been able to. I'm proud of you, Sam."

That last sentence was all Sam needed to hear.

"Thanks, dad," he said, his voice breaking just a little. "Don't get yourself killed." Once his father was gone, Deena smiled weakly from his side. She looked at him understandingly.

"Dean'll be here any minute," she said. Sam let out a deep breath. "You don't want to see him?"

"No, of course I do. I'm just...anxious. There are so many possibilities of how he's going to react. I can't tell if he's going to kick my ass or make a smartass comment."

"I don't think he'll do either."

"You don't know Dean like I do. He's not the sensitive type at all. I highly doubt he can even cry." Deena snorted.

"You can't remember anything from that night in the car?" Sam hesitated for a second.

"Bits and peices. It's pretty muddled, you know?" Deena looked skeptical, but allowed the answer. Sam slowly lowered himself onto the park bench, holding back the cry of pain as the fire broke out in his arm that had nothing to do with the pressure now on it.

"I bet he doesn't do either of those things," Deena speculated. Sam was still busy holding back the scalding pain that had now spread to his chest. It hurt a lot more than he showed on the surface.

"Well, I guess I'm screwed either way, betting against the psychic of the group."

"You're more powerful than me." Sam snapped his head around, flaring up the pain in his head.

"Let's not talk about that," he said quickly. "But I'll take your bet."

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Dean was speeding as fast as he could in his new car, a '68 Dodge Charger, without getting caught toward the meeting place Deena had designated. It was eight o'clock, already getting darker by the minute. The shadows made everything look threatening, sinister. He skidded to a stop in front of the park, already doubting whether the car's brakes would hold out much longer from his over-usage.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was nervous. This would be the first time he would have a conversation with him where Sam would be coherent enough to remember where he was for more than ten seconds. He hadn't been there when Sam had woken up, and wondered if Sam would hold that against him.

He got out of the car and began his hike through the almost-deserted park, only sprinkled with a few dog-walkers and joggers. Either it wasn't a very popular park or people just went to bed really early around the place. It was technically one of the worst places to meet up, the perfect ambush spot. Dean was prepared, though. He had basically anything a person could ever use against demons on his person. He was jumpy and more that a bit nervous for reasons other than the ones relating to his personal relationship with Sam.

Maybe they were being too reckless. Maybe the demons would be waiting for them. Maybe they already had Sam, were already transforming him back into the monster he had been.

It was at this point in his thoughts when he heard footsteps coming toward him at a steady pace. He instinctively pulled his gun out and prepared to shoot if necessary.

"Hey, don't shoot! It's Deena!" The familiar voice called.

Then an even more familiar voice said more softly, "Yeah, don't shoot!"

"Sam?" Dean responded. "Is that you?"

"No," the voice responded sarcastically. "It's Snuggle the fabric softener teddy bear, here to collect your soul."

"Hey, be careful about what you joke about," Dean warned, striding swiftly toward the sound of Sam's voice. He rounded a corner to find Deena leaning against a tree, a flashlight in her hand, the beam abruptly turned to Dean's face, temporarily blinding him. She quickly apologized and averted the light, making her way over to the park bench where Sam was sitting, looking way beyond uncomfortable. She awkwardly tried to help Sam up, but he had to do most of the work, his face clenched in pain as he pushed himself into a standing position, wobbling a bit before steadying himself with the arm that wasn't in a sling on the bench.

He really did look like hell. He wore a loose hooded sweatshirt, the hood up to cover what Dean could tell were bandsages. His left wrist was in a cast, held up with a sling. He hunched over, his good hand occasionally going to his chest as he gritted his teeth. He seemed to favor his left leg as well.

Dean tentatively walked up to his little brother. He could tell Sam was uncomfortable; he refused to meet Dean's eyes and he knew they had both been dreading this moment equally. Dean's mind was reeling away from the prospect from a moment like this. Every bit of him was screaming "Get out now." He was backing up, his mind conjuring the regular response: a smart-ass comment. He looked up at Sam, forcing him to meet his gaze as he put on a fake cocky smile. He could see in Sam's eyes that he knew what was coming and was prepared for it. But what neither was prepared for was what happened next.

Dean opened his mouth to say the comment, but to both his and Sam's surprise he reacted the exact opposite to what they had expected. He saw the surprise on Sam's face a moment before it happened, and he was still stunned for a few seconds after that. He knew it must have been the first time he had done it in god knew how long.

Instead of making a smartass comment, he simply crossed the space in between them and threw his arms around his baby brother, holding on to him as if he never intended to let him go again. Sam winced in pain and it seemed to take a few seconds before he realized what was going on, but he didn't pull away.

_Get out now, Dean, _the voice in his head warned him. _You can still pull it off. Make a comment, make it all a joke. Your reputation doesn't have to be ruined forever. _But for once in his life, he ignored the voice completely.

"It's good to have you back," Dean said, biting his lip to hold back the tears that had been threatening ever since he had turned the corner.

"It's good to be back," Sam replied. "But seriously, this is painful." Dean quickly pulled back, afraid that he had hurt Sam further, but discovered that Sam was smiling weakly at him, although clutching his chest and breathing awkwardly..

"Can you just warn me next time you're going to pull an unexpected big-brother moment? The pain medication is going to take a few more minutes to kick in totally."

"I heard the nurses were clamoring to find out who got to give you a sponge bath."

"Funny. I see you've maintained your sense of humor." Sam smiled, but it didn't seem to quite touch his eyes. There was something missing, something different, something--wrong--about Sam.

"Always. And I'm just getting started. All that time sitting in a small, square, white room with a comatose brother really gives you time to work on your material." Dean moved to Sam's side, intending to help him.

"I got it. Really, I think I'm alright."

"You see if you'll last five steps."

Sam didn't even make it one step, and Dean and Deena had to catch him before he fell flat on his face. Before Deena shifted Sam's weight to Dean, he saw her hold her hand out, palm up. Grudgingly, and rolling his eyes, Sam pulled a five dollar bill out of his pocket. "Happy now?" he asked quietly. She smiled and nodded. As Dean helped him up he remembered something.

"Where's dad?" Sam's face remained impassive, but his body was tensed.

"He—"

"He didn't."

"It's not like that. We ran into one of them. He says he's going to draw them away, buy us some time."

"How do we know he's not dead already?"

"We don't," Sam said, his face pained, though in pain or regret Dean couldn't tell.

"Why didn't you stop him," he snapped.

"Why didn't I what?"

"Why. Didn't. You. Stop. Him? He could get killed, he could run off again."

"He's not going to run off again," Sam insisted, staring at the ground.

"What if he does? Then you'll have been the one that let him go."

"What was I supposed to do?" Sam snapped back, lowering himself into the passenger seat. "Was I supposed to tackle him? Was I supposed to use my psychic powers? Was I supposed to just turn myself over to them again so that you and he could live happily ever after? That didn't sit so well the last time as I remember." Sam was glaring at Dean in a way that said 'come on, try me.' Dean took a deep breath, realizing how much he sounded like a jackass.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"It's alright," Sam said quietly, as if he didn't totally mean it, as he closed the door, but not before giving it an approving nod. Dean kicked himself inside for being so stupid.

"That was really nice," Deena said sarcastically.

"Yeah," Dean said through gritted teeth. "I was never the best at moments like this."

"I'm guessing you don't do the hugging thing very often." Dean gave her a look. "Of course."

"I really want to thank you."

"It was no problem. Your brother there's a good guy. I'm just glad I could help him out. It was worth it."

"He's worth it. For me, at least. Again, thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me. And I don't say that to everybody who does favors for me. I mean—you saved my brother's life."

"I'd hate to see what you'd do without him."

"I don't plan on having that situation arise any time soon." Dean smiled, then took out the bottle of holy water and a notebook that he had written in. "This is holy water; it'll help if you come across any of them. In this notebook I wrote down some things you might need. Devil's Trap, stuff like that."

"Thanks. By the way, he's working out a plan for revenge for what you did to his cast." Dean smiled as Deena took one last look at Sam, half-asleep in the car, gave Dean a quick wave, and headed off.

Dean took a deep breath and strode over to the driver's side, getting in. Even though Sam looked groggy and in pain, Dean could tell he was angry.

"Look, I'm really sorry, I just—"

"You just don't want him to leave. I know." Dean then realized that Sam hadn't looked angry, instead frowning, staring out the window in an attempt to steer away from the conversation. "I'm sorry. I tried, I really did, but there wasn't really anything I could do. I mean, I can't even stand up on my own anymore." Sam frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Dean started up the car.

"Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah," Sam said, his mind somewhere else entirely. Then, as if desperate to change the subject, he added, "So, what did you do while I was unconscious?"

"It actually hasn't been that boring. I swear, if you check things out around here it's like being in a freaking television drama."

"WB or ABC?"

"ABC. Honestly, I don't think anything on the WB could ever really happen." Sam smiled his strange, half-smile again. He didn't really seem to be listening anymore.

"Sam, are you sure you're alright?" Dean repeated.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Sam, _I'm_ not fine. And if I'm not fine you're sure as hell not fine." Sam shot a glare over his shoulder. "What happened to you, man?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Sam stated simply.

"We need to talk about it."

"No, we don't," Sam said firmly, and his tone told Dean that he wouldn't be budging on the matter.

"Can I ask you one question?"

"I can't guarantee I'll answer it."

"Are you mad that I came after you? Because you're sending off signals…" Sam's head snapped around so fast it probably would have given any normal person whiplash.

"What makes you think that?"

"You told me when you left not to come after you."

"If this is about that night when I tried to kill you, if that's what you're getting at, then—"

"No, that's not what I'm getting at. I don't want to talk about that night unless you do."

"I said some things when I was— look, I'm sorry."

"I'm not upset about the things you said when you were 'possessed.' It's the things you said when you weren't that bother me."

"So _that's_ what you were getting at?"

"You played the 'if I loved you' card. You asked me the question that nobody should ask someone who loves them. You asked me to let you die. You_ expected_ me to let you die."

"But I didn't die."

"You wanted to. And I need to know why."

"I didn't _want _to die. But I thought I was going to die, I _knew_ I was going to die." Sam looked away. "I didn't mean that stuff. When you think you're going to die, you sometimes say things you don't mean."

"You knew what you were saying."

"I was doing what I thought I had to do."

"Hearing you say those things scared the shit out of me. You sounded freaking suicidal man."

"I don't know. Maybe a bit of me was. I can't remember half the things I said. Toward the beginning I can recall bits and pieces, but at the end I just blanked out. Nothing. I was too freaking delirious." That fact brought Dean some bit of comfort, knowing that he wouldn't have to face the awkwardness it would bring. His reputation was still stable. "I do remember the words VW Beetle. Was I imagining that?"

"Yeah, you were." No need to tell Sam about that. "You didn't miss much. It was a lot of driving and talking. Dad giving orders and shit like that." Sam nodded in agreement, and Dean let out the breath he had been holding. There was one more thing he had to take care of, though.

"Um...Sam." Sam looked at him. "Here. I want you to have this." He held out the pendant by its chain for Sam to take. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"What?" He said incredulously.

"Just take it."

"Why are you giving this to me?"

"Look, Sam, this is awkward enough without the extra questions, so just take it already." Hesitantly, he reached out with his good arm to take the figure. The second it came into contact with Sam's skin he pulled back as if he had been burned. "Did that hurt? Like, burn?"

"No," Sam said, probably wondering what a strange question it was. "It was like it shocked me or something." He pulled it into his palm, examining it.

"It doesn't hurt now?"

"No."

"It doesn't feel hot or anything?"

"No, it's really cold."

"Well, put it on." Sam threw Dean a suspicious glance before pulling it over his head.

"How to repay you?" He said jokingly. "I'd ask you to sign my cast, but I see you've beaten me to the punch." He raised the cast, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. "It's not funny."

"Sorry. It's just... pink just works so well with your skin tone I couldn't help it."

"Funny. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who has to walk around with a cast covered in pink flowers and smiley faces for the next month and a half."

"You don't like it?"

"No, I don't like it!"

"What, are you going to try to get me back or something? I'd like to see you try." Sam was about to respond but Dean cut him off, turning the volume up on the stereo, and Sam went back to his sulking. The radio station was playing Bad Moon Rising, which for some reason brought back a bad memory, though which he couldn't place. Sam had a similar reaction, and he quickly put in an AC/DC tape he had recently acquired. Once again it was the wrong song to pick. Dean recognized the familiar chords of "If You Want Blood (You've Got It)." This time Sam was the one of gave him the 'Don't even joke about that' look, remembering the reference to it from the vision he had. The next song was better: Highway to Hell, though even that seemed to have a negative effect on Sam's mood. Dean couldn't see why; it was an uplifting song. You really had to look hard to find the negative, and apparently that was exactly what Sam was doing.

"Do you think it's a sign?" Sam asked, resting his head against the windshield, eyelids drooping.

"Screw symbolism." Sam smiled slightly, eyes closed as he drifted off to sleep, the chorus echoing in the background.

* * *

_**I'm on the highway to hell** _

Sam smiled softly as he found himself falling asleep. John and Dean didn't need to know now, or ever for that matter. They needed to understand that there were some wounds you just had to accept were inflicted, step back, and let heal by themselves.

_**Highway to hell** _

Sam knew that sometimes you just have to suck it up because the people around you would never look at you the same if they ever found out what you had done, what you probably would do in the times to come, and what you were doing at the current time.

_**I'm on the highway to hell** _

And so Sam did suck it up, slipped behind his mask of regularity, his toothy grin, and enjoyed the minutes of calm, the moments in the eye of the storm. He needed to keep his sanity as long as possible; it helped him to live with himself. There was no forgiving what he had done. People would say it wasn't his fault, but he knew the truth. He was the only one that did, and that helped matters the most. Telling the truth was not an option at this point. It would be awhile before it would be.

_**Highway to hell** _

He would hide everything, act like nothing big had happened, like it wasn't important. He would laugh and fight and heal. That would be his shell, his mask. He couldn't afford to be himself; even his own mind provided no shelter.

"Dean," he muttered.

"Yeah," Dean said. It sounded as if he was thinking about something else entirely.

_**And I'm going down...**_

"I'm sorry." There was silence. Sam couldn't see Dean's face, his forehead resting on the windshield, watching the countryside pass him by, but he could tell Dean was wondering how to answer, or whether or not to answer at all. Dean drew in an audible breath and spoke, in a withdrawn way, almost to himself.

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

_You have no idea._

"Now go to sleep. We've got a long trip ahead of us and I'm not stopping any time soon."

_**All the way down...**_

**Author's Note: Before you ask, NO, this is NOT the end of the story. I have a whole lot more planned out for this story, including more guest stars from the actual show (my PATHETIC attempt at humor, I'll admit) and one of the new ones I created. (hmmm.. there aren't many, so take a wild guess) There are some happy moments and some very sad moments. One I'm not sure if I can finish without crying, but I cry easily, so... anyway.**

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	24. Nightmares

**Chapter 24: Nightmares**

Sam had to stifle his scream within the folds of the lumpy pillow as his mind jolted him back into consciousness, giving a futile attempt to steady his wild heart rate and keep the room from tilting and spinning as much as it already was. He rested back against the headboard of the hotel bed and closed his eyes. He could still hear Dean's quiet snores, so he could rest easy about that aspect. In the past week he hadn't brought Dean out of his slumber once when he had woken screaming; Dean was such a deep sleeper he probably would have kept dreaming through an earthquake. If only Sam could be so lucky.

His stomach churning, his world spinning threateningly, Sam stumbled toward the bathroom just in case he got sick. He hadn't yet during any of the other times, but the jolt had steadily been getting worse every time. He turned on the tap for the cold water, his hands shaking so badly it took him three tries, and splashed some of the freezing liquid across his face, bringing some of his senses into better clarity.

He was having what he could only guess were night-terrors. He had researched it on their new laptop the previous night when he hadn't been able to slip back into a peaceful sleeping pattern. The symptoms seemed right, and he could barely remember anything once he was awake of what had occurred most of the times. The times he could remember he tended to wish he couldn't. Memories of that night were the last things he needed now, when he was trying his best to forget everything. But he knew he would never be able to erase that memory, or any of the rest, as long as he lived.

He looked up at himself in the mirror. His face was white as a sheet, his eyes puffy with bags underneath them from his lack of sleep. The bandages on his head were off, the stitches invisible from the front, but his left wrist was in a cast, still covered in the pink drawings Dean had admitted to doing (the doctors had refused to change the cast). His chest would hurt if he took a deep breath or stood up too fast, and the bandages covered the symbol still etched into the flesh of his arm, which burned as if on fire at least once a day. His face was covered in scratches and minor bruising, his lip split. His hair, permanently darkened a shade from his 'possession,' clung to his forehead awkwardly by a mix of the tap water and his own sweat. He cleaned himself up as much as possible and then headed back into the main room, where Dean casually rolled over onto his back with a slight snort, still asleep.

Sam needed to go outside. He needed the cold air to hit his face again, to wake him up. He couldn't go back to sleep. Every evening he had been telling himself it would be the night he would finally get more than two hours of sleep. It had only been a week and he already felt like drugging himself just to get some decent rest for once. He didn't know if he could go on like this for any amount of months, let alone years. It was more than just not being able to sleep; he was _afraid _to sleep. He had already lived through that experience once. He couldn't go through it every night of his life. He closed the laptop on his bedside table, shoved it into his messenger bag, his fingers still trembling badly, and slung it over his shoulder. He might as well get some work done, he supposed.

"Sam," Dean muttered, in almost perfect unison with the time Sam's hand touched the doorknob.

_Crap. The **one** night he wakes up..._

Sam turned around, dreading the conversation to come. Dean would know something was wrong, a fact Sam had tried so hard to cover up. He would know. Everything.

Dean's eyes were open, but just barely, squinting. "Where're you goin'?" He was barely awake, that was obvious. He wouldn't remember any of this conversation in the morning. Sam let out a breath.

"I'm going outside," Sam whispered soothingly, trying not to wake his brother up any farther. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Go back to sleep. It's only one o'clock in the morning."

"'kay," Dean muttered, turning back over to his stomach, burying his face in the pillows, falling asleep immediately.

"Good night," Sam whispered. "See you soon."

* * *

When Dean woke up to the alarm clock at six AM, the first thing he noticed was that Sam wasn't in the bed next to his. His heart thudded in his chest, waking his system immediately.

"Sam?" No answer.

He was panicking. Where could he have gone? There was no sign of a struggle as far as he could see, but then, the Demon had always been good at being discreet. Had he already blown everything? Were they already turning Sam back into the monster he had been?

"Sam?" he called again, pulling a pair of pants over the underwear he was wearing and a jacket over his shirt. He peeked out the window, only to see the car still in the parking lot. He noticed that his laptop was missing from the table.

"Shit," he hissed. Without even bothering with socks he slipped his feet into one of his pairs of boots. He grabbed a gun, holy water, and a cross, just in case, and ran toward the door at top speed.

The door slammed open a second before he turned the knob, hitting him square in the face and knocking him flat on his back. He clutched his nose, now bleeding, and looked to who was standing in the doorway.

"Sorry about that," Sam said apologetically. "I just went to get coffee and breakfast. All they really had besides Cheerios, crumbly pancakes, and cold eggs were plain glazed donuts. Not exactly the healthiest meal in the world, but hey, I'm just glad to be eating solid foods again."

"Where did you go?" Sam looked surprised by the question, his brow furrowed, as he casually took off the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"I got food," he said, as if he were explaining something to a five-year-old. "I thought you'd be hungry and I got up before you, so I figured I'd save you the trouble."

"You're still recovering. You had a fever last night."

"100.2. Big fucking deal."

"You can barely stand on your own." Sam opened the laptop on the table, the screen facing away from Dean, and started typing..

"I can suck it up, Dean."

"You just got out of the hospital. You can barely defend yourself!"

"I'm a big boy," Sam said, not looking up. "I can take care of myself, hurt or not. Thank dad for that. What, was I not supposed to leave your sight at all?"

"No. I just—" he stopped before he let the next words that were about to come out of his mouth be released into the conversation. "I just don't think we should split up until you're better. Recovered."

"I'm not that badly hurt."

"You almost died!" Sam winced, clicking one last time and clicked the screen closed, but Dean pushed farther. "You technically _should_ have died. You got lucky and beat the odds. Now I don't want to have to spend more time in a hospital because you did something stupid."

"It was _downstairs_!"

"What if they were there waiting for you?"

Sam snorted and said skeptically, "If they were waiting down in the hotel diner, then I think they need to revise their kidnapping strategy a bit if their proficiency is going to get better. Plus, I'm sure Dean, my big hero, would save the day." The last comment was made with obvious sarcasm. Dean met Sam's gaze, giving him a warning glare. Sam stared back coolly before pushing the box of donuts towards Dean as if they were an offer of peace, but smugly knowing he had won this round.

"Seriously," Sam said, "I think I may be ready to do another job, if you found one. Something simple, you know, but still, we're wasting time just driving around." Dean scrutinized the situation. Sam made a good point, but his own classic over-protectiveness tended to cloud his judgment. "I know you want to get back to work. You have that huge stack of newspapers. I still want to know how you got them, by the way."

"Those are just to pick up on what I missed in the past month. As for where I got them, some old lady keeps all her old newspapers but never reads them. I bought them from her, but I don't think she's as obsessive compulsive as she seems. She's missing three days."

"Hmm…" Sam mumbled. "That's fascinating, but I wouldn't make it that big a deal. Nothing probably happened in those few days anyway. And you're avoiding the subject."

"No."

"Come on, there has to be something. It's a month until Halloween."

"There probably _will _be something. But no." Sam smiled, putting the puppy dog eyes on without making it look pathetic. "Don't even try it. You know I built up immunity to the puppy dog eyes in eighth grade with the whole Erin Scruggs incident." Sam shrugged.

"Alright, Dean. But think about all those people that need us. People are going to die unless we do something."

"So you suggest we go in there to save someone in complete disregard for our own safety? What good can you do anyone if you're dead?"

"I'm not going to die, Dean," Sam insisted, his face suddenly serious. "I promise you. Not for a very, very long time. But I have to do something or I'm going to go insane and kill us both."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. Sam had always been stubborn, and Dean really didn't want to start a fight.

Plus, even though Sam couldn't remember it, Dean had promised him that he would do anything for him if he lived. It was stupid, he knew it, and he had said it in the spur of a moment, but he didn't like to break promises. He threw down the top newspaper onto the table in front of Sam, the article along the side column highlighted. The headline read:

**Mysterious Drownings Araise Suspicions Among Ocala Residents**

"We'll give it a try." Sam's grin widened, his eyes glinting as he declared triumph.

* * *

**-Two weeks later-**

Sam and Dean, soaking wet, covered in mud, and looking like crap, especially Sam, whose cast felt like it had turned to the muck he had been in, watched Linda open the door, initially surpirised by their appearance.

"Well," Dean said, a sour look on his face, his voice dead-sounding, "we got it."

"Thank you," she said happily. She ran forward to hug them, but Dean held up a hand, reminding her of how they were totally caked in lake-crap.

"Yeah," Dean said, still grumpy. "We'll just be leaving now. Don't disturb any more water-spirits, alright, because if you do you're on your own." He smiled faintly and walked ack to the car, leading Sam by the arm, which was obviously painful for him, and Dean let go of him immediately.

"I think that went well."

"Shut up, Sam. Just-- just shut up."

"I mean, well for the fact that we're just back to work."

"What part of 'shut the fuck up' do you not understand? Now we have to go back to the hotel room, change our clothes, get you to a hospital for your arm, and make sure we get the hell out of here within the next four hours."

"I don't need to go to a hospital."

"Stop being such a stubborn baby. When you can do a handstand with that wrist, then I'll let you have the cast off. And don't argue, I'm in a really pissy mood."

"No more water spirits?" Sam asked jokingly.

"Never again. Never. Fucking. Again. And we _are_ waiting another few weeks before we go back to work again."

"Come on!" Sam complained, getting into the car.

"No arguing. You almost drowned back there."

"I was fine!"

"You were unconscious for two minutes."

"I was not."

"Fine," Dean said, tired of arguing with Sam. "I'm just glad I didn't have to perform mouth-to-mouth. I would have had to kill myself."

"Yeah, I'm glad too." Sam was surprised when Dean started laughing. "What?"

"You lying bastard! I did have to do mouth-to-mouth." Sam cursed as Dean kept laughing. "Three weeks, then we can go back."

"You really had to do mouth-to-mouth?"

"Dude, when someone like me has to get that close to a guy, let alone his baby brother, it's something that sticks with you for awhile. You're _lucky _you were unconscious." Sam didn't answer, too busy wiping his mouth. "Come on, that's just juvenile." Sam gave him a look. "Good point."

* * *

"Well," the doctor said, examining the x-ray of Sam's arm, "it looks like you should be able to manage without the cast from now on. We'll put it in a splint just in case, and you should take it easy for a few days."

"Thank you," Sam said. "It's be good to have that freaking thing off."

"You're welcome. I'll just take a look at this other injury you have..." She carefully began to unwrap the bandages on Sam's left arm concealing the cut. Once the last layer came off, Sam had the chance to clearly look at the wound for the first time, having avoided it for the past few weeks. The skin had healed together for the most part, leaving clear, reddish imprints of vertical and horizontal lines looped together into an itricate design leading halfway down his forearm. Some parts seemed to be healing faster than others. The doctor raised an eyebrown when she saw the shape. She gave the usual "Hmm..." probably wondering if she should ask the same question the other doctors had asked (Dean had been kind enough not to ask, though Sam knew he was wondering himself): "How did you get this?" She offered a variant on the norm.

"Did you do this to yourself?" He wondered what to say. Should he tell her the truth? Neither of his two options seemed good. He couldn't say yes, they would send him to therapy. But if he said no, then he would probably have to explain how he got it, and he didn't feel like coming up with a story. The truth or not.

"I don't remember," he replied simply. It was the best course to take in the situation "I don't remember how I got any of these. I remember walking through the woods and then waking up in the hospital. Anything is possible, I guess."

"Well, for someone who experienced what you probably went through, it's not surprising that your mind has shut those memories out. You're lucky you didn't bleed to death; it hit an artery." Upon further inspection, she added, "How long ago was that?"

"Three weeks, why?" She shook her head.

"It would have to have been before that."

"What?"

"It's healed too much. It's almost completely closed up already, and that's too remarkably fast for an injury of this scale."

"If you're doubting that I'm telling you the truth, then--"

"Look, it's your business, but remember just in case about your cousin out there. He needs you."

"I'm not suicidal," he said, but she caught the note in his voice. The one that contradicted what he was saying. She didn't answer.

"I'm not seeing any sign of infection, but there _will _be one crazy scar there."

"Wonderful," he said sarcastically. "What about my chest?"

"Healing fine. But I can tell you've been back to physical activties a little too soon. Your stitches have already dissolved, but you're stretching out the wounds too far, you're not giving them time to heal."

"So you're saying I have to sit around doing nothing for another few weeks?"

"I'm saying that for your own safety you should take a rest. Plus, you've been through a major trauma, and you should probably hold off on the strenuous activities, maybe take a break. For yourself and your cousin's sake. I bet he's worried about you. You should help him, make sure he_ knows_ you're fine. I'll just let him know you'll be a few minutes longer."

"Thank you."

**Author's Note: I don't really have much to say at this point except please review. It means a lot to me when you do and it lets me know that people are actually reading this. Thank you.**

**Oh, and in the upcoming chapters, it's going to seem a little episodic, and, in my opinion, definitely not the best writing I've ever done. Still, after that it will be back to the plot. (the whole episodic thing DOES have a point, I swear, so just bear with me)**

**Once more, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	25. Worst Ghost Story Ever

**Chapter 25: Worst Ghost Story Ever**

**Author's Note: OK, the next few chapters, as I have pointed out, are more episodic. They do have a point, but if you totally hate them, then please don't stop reading, because it _will_ get more into the plot. This is NOT the best writing I've ever done, and it was based off a story that my friend Sam and I came up with and wrote over the length of a 2-hour Instant Message. It's just some goofing around we did, and you'll get what makes it more like a lot of skits we wrote for fun when you get to the second chapter of this part. Hint: two guest stars from the actual show will be making an appearance. Guess who. Seriously. In your reviews, give me your guess. But please bear with me through what I'm sure will be the least-popular chapters of the story. **

**(Oh, by the way, I finally got my friend Sam to post her fanfiction, which I'm editing for her, on the website. Check it out. I have it under my favorites. The title is Bullets. If you like mine, please, as a favor to me, drop a review over there.)**

**And I'm sorry if this uploaded twice, but it wasn't showing up unless you tried like five times.**

"Don't be such a chicken, Jamie," Natalie said jokingly, finishing off a section of fake cobwebs on the fireplace.

"I can't help it," Jamie responded in her own defense. "This place would give anyone the creeps."

"Correction," Travis added. "Any place gives _you_ the creeps if it's dark enough."

"I'm not scared. It's just that I don't think this place is the best place to have the party in."

"Why would we use any other place? They're tearing the place down next Friday, and this place is like, a town landmark. We have to have some sort of celebration."

"There's a reason they're tearing it down. It's not safe. What about the woman that used to live here who fell down the stairs? Somebody could get hurt."

"That might not have been the house's fault. What if they just _told us_ that she fell down the stairs?" Jamie didn't miss the jokingly spooky tone of Natalie's voice.

"What?"

"God, you've been away too long. Everyone knows that it wasn't an accident. She was murdered."

"Come on. That's bullshit. We're over twenty; we're not kids anymore."

"Oh," Natalie said jokingly, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Suddenly we're the Big Doctor On Campus. Too good for a decent ghost story?"

"Yeah," Travis added.

"No, I am not--"

"Come on, Jamie! Have a little fun! Get the stick out of your ass."

"Hey! I resent that."

"Loosen up. It's just a story. It's rumored that the police covered it up because they couldn't find the person who did it or the woman's body. And because they couldn't, she's still angry, and seeks out the people who've killed, and kills them herself." There was silence.

"Bum bum bum," Travis added ominously, then burst out laughing. "That has got to be the worst scary story in the history of the universe."

"Well, not all the true ones can be up to Mr. I'm-Steven-King's-Number-One-Fan's standards."

"I'm going to go get the rest of the cobwebs," Jamie said, smiling lightly as she picked up the empty box to discard on her way.

"See you later. Don't let the ghost get you." Jamie rolled her eyes, but stopped in her tracks at the doorway.

"Did you hear that?" She whispered, and her two friends looked to each other, question in their eyes.

"Hear what?"

"I heard--nevermind." She dismissed the idea immediately.

"See," Natalie said, "it's getting to you. You do believe it!"

"Whatever," Jamie said, shaking her head. Natalie and Travis silently laughed as they continued their work. That is, until they heard the scream. Natalie was at the door first, Travis climbing down the ladder. They found Jamie, white-faced, standing stock-still in the kitchen, leaning on the counter for support.

"Are you alright?"

"Um..." Jamie choked out. "I think I'm going to go home." She launched toward the door at top speed, looking over her shoulder as if expecting someone to try and stop her.

"Jamie, wait--"

"I'm sorry," Jamie called, and then the door slammed.

"What the hell was that?"

* * *

**-Four Days Later-**

"You don't have a costume?" The blonde girl wearing a cheerleader outfit greeted him before blowing a bubble with her gum.

"Is one required?" Dean asked, annoyed.

"Yeah," she said in her best valley-girl voice; Dean couldn't tell if it was part of her costume or if, god forbid, that was what she was always like. It was obvious that though she was over eighteen she was trying to be a teenager forever. "It's a Halloween party, duh."

"Can I get in without one?"

"No."

"Come on," he insisted, putting on one of his most charming smiles, but she was too busy checking out the guy she had just let in who was dressed in a camo jacket and orange ski mask.

"Nice costume," she commented.

_The translation means "Nice ass." _He turned around, and Dean recognized who it was.

"Sam!" The guy lifted his ski mask, and Sam's features were revealed, his hair gently touselled by the mask. The girl at the door's grin widened, and she began twirling her hair in the girliest way possible.

"Yeah, Dean," he said casually. "You don't have a costume?"

"No!"

"Why?"

"Because I didn't know it was a costume party."

"Sometimes I forget you're such a dumbass. Luckily, I'm the one that always comes prepared." He threw Dean a pair of crappy vampire teeth.

"Thanks, Sam," he said sarcastically. "Now can I get in?" he asked the girl.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," she said, popping her gum. He stepped through the door, but she called, "Wait." Sam and Dean stopped in their tracks. "Are you two here...um...together?" Eyebrows raised, they glanced at each other.

"You mean..." Sam started. "Here together, as in--"

"No, we're not," Dean insisted, and Sam shook his head violently.

"Well," the blonde insisted, tossing her hair and smiling at Sam. "In that case, I'll be in within the next ten minutes. See you then? I'm Natalie, by the way."

"Um... sure," Sam responded, heading further into the party, Dean in tow.

"Nice," Dean commented. "That's a first."

"A first what?"

"That's the first time a girl has hit on you and not me. I guess some chicks just have weird taste, huh?"

"Funny," Sam said, but it seemed he was focusing on the girl at the door again.

"I'd be careful with her. She's got 'stalker' written all over her. But if you insist--"

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll see. Just wait, in about five minutes she's going to ask you to dance. See how it goes from there."

"Nothing is going to--"

"God, don't bite my head off. I'm trying to help you get some action here, but honestly I don't think you need my help."

"I'm not here to pick up girls."

"Within ten minutes you'll be making out with her. Depending on how drunk you are at that point--"

"Dean, listen to this." The blonde girl, Natalie, was talking to a tall man with a mop of black hair and a Zorro costume.

"She's really freaked out. She says she's fine, but I think she saw something the other day."

"She must be taking that story a little too seriously."

"I don't know. I think there's something seriously wrong going on here. I'm worried."

"There is nothing wrong. It's all in her head, and she knows it. Tell her it's Halloween, she's supposed to be scared."

"She's beyond scared, and I think she may have something."

"I told you; there's _nothing wrong_. Now, I have a party to attend, and a hot guy I have plans with." Dean gave Sam a look.

"You're such a brat sometimes."

"That's why people love me." He rolled his eyes and headed toward the stairs.

"I think we have solid proof now," Dean observed. "There's something going on. Let's check it out."

Sam started to follow Dean, but before he got two feet, Natalie had materialized out of thin air, grabbing his arm.

"Hey," she said, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. "Come on, let's dance." Sam threw a pleading look over his shoulder at Dean, who just smiled.

"See you in awhile, Sammy." Sam didn't get the chance to correct him, already being led forcefully through the crowd. Dean headed for the stairs. He looked down at the dance floor from the top of the steps, and saw Sam, who looked much more comfortable where he was with the girl, who was getting closer each moment. For a split second he looked up at Dean, and he thought he could see Sam's eyes standing out in the crowd, the irises black. But by the time Dean blinked, Sam's gaze was averted.

_You're just paranoid, Dean. Just paranoid._

**Author's Note: I pretty much said it all above. I'm staying home from school today, because our air-conditioning has been out for three days and won't be back until next week. I live in Florida, and these have been the few days that it HASN'T rained. Ugh, life sucks. And in PE they still make us run, even though the showers don't run. So, anyway, I don't know what the point of that was. Oh, yeah, if you have any questions or whatever, I'll be free to answer them.**


	26. Out Of Control

**Chapter 26: Out Of Control**

**Author's Note: I realize that in most of the chapter, Sam's actions may seem a little out of character, but remember what happens when the other part of him takes control.**

When Natalie had first asked Sam to dance, his entire being had screamed 'no.' Now he realized how stupid that had been. He even felt like he was having fun for the first time in the past few years. When was the last time he had actually enjoyed a party? But for some reason it felt weird, like he knew something was horribly wrong.

"By the way, your contacts are awesome," Natalie said, as they made their way to the side of the room.

"Huh?"

"They're black. I think they look really hot on you. I like them." Sam smiled.

"Yeah, me too." He knew what was happening to him now. Some part of his mind was telling him to leave, to get his control back so that he could escape the person he would become if he let it get out of hand, but the dominant part was happy with the change. He felt normal again, and he didn't want to fight it. It was also that part, the dominant half, that told him when Natalie pushed him against the wall and kissed him, not to shove her away, which is what he normally would have done. He was caught by surprise, back to normal for a split second, feeling like a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown on his head. That feeling passed, though, and the kiss deepened, as did the feeling that things were out of his control. He could almost feel the blackness seeping into his eyes, his hair darkening. The objects and people around him were becoming clearer though he couldn't actually see them. He felt the deadly calm take over his mind. The part of his consciousness that still knew who he was only had two words to say:

_Oh, shit._

* * *

"Who are you supposed to be?" Dean asked the young brunette manning the opening to the haunted house portion of the party. She turned to him. 

"I'm Max from Dark Angel." Dean gave her a look that showed her he didn't understand. "Jessica Alba's character from the television show."

"Oh, yeah," Dean said. "Jessica Alba. Nice likeness, by the way." She rolled her eyes, and Dean changed the subject.

"Are you alright?" Dean asked. She nodded shyly, her face still pale. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"This house gives people the creeps sometimes," he offered. "You know, I half expect something to pop out and try to kill me at any moment."

"Well, that would be the point of the haunted house," she responded. It was obvious she felt awkward talking to him, a stranger.

"I mean, other than that. Don't most people believe that this house _really is_ haunted?"

"_Most_ people."

"Not a believer?"

"Not necessarily."

"What are you? A lawyer? A scientist?"

"A doctor."

"I see. Not what I expected."

"Not what you expected?"

"Doctors are the wild card, I find."

"You sound like you have quite a bit of experience in the matter."

"It's kind of what I do. Supernatural shit has sort of been a--hobby, in a way, for me and my brother."

"You're not with those other geeks, are you? The ones with the video camera?"

"No, I don't think so." Then he thought about it.

_No, it couldn't be._

"Do you remember their names?" he asked.

"Barry and Eddie or something. They were wearing Ghostbuster costumes, it was pretty funny, actually."

"Harry and Ed?"

"Yeah, that was it."

"Shit, I thought we had ditched those two." She raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Nothing," he assured her. He would have to take care of the Hellhounds later. "But, you helped put this thing together, right?"

"I helped put up the decorations, yes, but only for about two hours."

"Too scared?"

"In a way, yeah. My friends told me this story and I was tired. It sounds really stupid, but I thought I heard something, like a voice. And nobody else could hear it."

"Did it sound threatening? Like it wanted to hurt you?"

"Well--yeah. I mean, my imagination assumed it was going to try to kill me, and that's what my imagination told me was really happening."

"Look--uh--"

"Jamie."

"Jamie. I think you may be in danger."

"What?" She said incredulously. "You don't honestly beleve--"

"Yes, I do. I believe, and I know."

"I was delirious! I was imagining things. Ghosts do not exist."

"Jamie, you weren't imagining things, you--"

"They can't hurt me, they _don't freaking exist_!" But it was painfully obvious that by trying to convince herself that she didn't believe it, she was fighting a losing battle.

"No! I'm sorry, I have to help out my friends. This party is very important to them," she said. Denial. It tended to be people's first reaction when Dean would tell them stuff like this. He expected it.

_Yeah, I'm pretty sure Natalie could care less about the party..._

"Just, be careful, alright?" She nodded uncomfortably, her gaze averted. Dean turned around, trying to find Sam. He walked down the hallways, looking through the people in the throng.

_Let's see, in the main room he could be anywhere, check that last. There's no way I'm checking for him in the bedrooms; if he's in one of those, I'm letting him be. OK, closet: nothing. Kitchen: teenagers chugging beer. Bathroom: Nothing. Living Room: two people making out. Next room--wait, backtrack, Dean. _He took a second look. _Yep, we found him._

Sam was entirely preoccupied at the moment, too distracted to notice Dean. Natalie had him pressed against the wall, and he probably could have pushed her off, but she had either taken him by surprise or he just didn't care. Dean was going for the second option, judging by the fact that his jacket was missing, his button down shirt already mostly off, his arm around Natalie's waist, holding her close.

_Seriously, you guys, get a room. _He was about to say something when two more figures entered the room, one toting a video-camera, the other holding various weird-looking devices, both wearing the official Ghostbusters costume.

"Come on, Harry, we just have to get a few more establishing shots, then come back later for the real action. Plus, the ESP detector isn't picking up anything yet; that means the spirit isn't angry. Let's get a shot of the fireplace; it adds a spookier, darker effect."

"I still think we should go for the whole Blair Witch angle, all rough and more real, gritty."

"But we don't want to make people hurl; that brings down the audience quota. If we're going to get a tv show, then we need to go for the whole documentary angle. And I'm in charge, so that's what we're doing. Remember, I'm Buffy, you're Willow."

"How come you always get to be Buffy?"

"Because you said yourself, you're not strong enough. You wouldn't be able to live up to the legend. I myself am just a humble fan, doing my best to live up to the idol herself, and to hope one day that I can be as great as she-- hey, guys, we need to get this shot, so if you don't mind getting a room or something, we'd really appreciate it." No response from either Sam or Natalie.

"Sam," Dean said, tapping him on the shoulder lightly. Natalie pulled away, leaving Sam still leaning against the wall, a little bit of lipstick still on his face, his hair sticking out weirdly. But the comic effect was ruined when he saw the color of Sam's eyes.

"Hey, Dean," he said, looking torn, half calm, half surprised. His eyes were as coal-black as ever. Dean's stomach turned over. Sam averted his attention as Natlie kissed him again, and they were back in business.

"Break it up, you two," Dean said. Normally he just would have left them alone, but unless Sam got a grip he would lose total control again. He pulled Natalie off of Sam and hissed in Sam's ear, "Let him go, you son of a bitch."

"How long have you been watching us?" Sam asked, smiling the cocky smile that was the trademark of the 'Darth Vader Sam'.

"About a minute and a half."

"Has anyone told you what a pervert you are?"

"Actually, I believe I would truly be a pervert if I had these two assholes set up a camera so I could watch you two--"

"Hello," Harry said, "move, please."

"Excuse me," Dean snapped. "Do you mind?" He pulled Sam off to the side slightly, Natalie following. He threw her a look, and she backed off. "Now get a hold of yourself."

"Come on, Dean," Sam said. "I was just having a little fun."

"You're just going a little psycho."

"Well, I am dressed as a serial killer."

"No, Sam," Dean insisted, going for the angle that seemed to be working the best. "You're letting this get out of hand. I need you to hang on and get a freaking grip on yourself, alright?"

Sam nodded, the irises of his eyes becoming lighter, not normal, but enough to ease Dean's worries a bit.

"Alright," Dean said. "Are you going to be alright for another few minutes?" Sam nodded again.

"Now move," Harry said, "and make way for the professionals."

"If I'm not mistaken," Dean argued, "it was us that saved your sorry little asses."

"Oh, that's right. You were the amateurs that nearly got yourselves killed."

"What?"

"Everything was going fine until you idiots showed up and mucked everything up."

"First of all, if you're going to say 'fuck' just use the actual word."

"I don't have to resort to using that word."

"What, because Buffy doesn't?"

"Buffy doesn't have to resort to--"

But he was soon cut off by the scream of "Help!" from down the hall. Dean was the first one out the door. He ran down the hallway to the door the cries for help were coming from. It shut right in his face.

"Dammit!" he yelled. The voice was still screaming more and more desperately. He stepped back, wondering what to do. Sam beat him to the punch, kicking the door down.

"Hey, that's my thing," Dean complained. Sam glared over at him, and Dean was still disturbed by the ring of black seeping into his irises. But he had bigger things to deal with at the time. He could see the figure standing over Jamie, its hands on her chest as if to rip her heart out. It turned around and disappeared so fast it was hard to tell what its face looked like. Her friend, Travis, was white as a sheet, eyes wide, and fell to his knees at her side.

"She's not breathing," he declared, his voice jumping an octave higher than it normally should have been.

"Get out of the way," Dean warned, kneeling down beside her.

"Oh, my god!" Natalie screamed as Sam pulled out his cell phone. "What are you doing?" she said, forgetting to stop screaming.

"I'm calling 911." That much should have been obvious, but Natalie obviously had never been the sharpest scissors in the batch. Hell, she probably wasn't even as sharp as those plastic ones they give you in kindergarten to cut through construction paper.

"Are you getting this, Harry?" Ed asked, his voice excited. "This is a true example of an extra-terrestrial attack from beyond the grave."

"A what?" Natalie said hysterically. The camera zoomed in on her face.

"An attack by a vengeful spirit."

"What?" She repeated. The camera zoomed back in on Jamie and Dean, who was performing mouth-to-mouth to no avail.

"Come on," he muttered, before trying it again.

"I called 911, they'll be here in five minutes," Sam declared.

"Medical help can't heal what this girl has obviously experienced," Ed stated to the camera. "An attack of this scale will stay with her for her entire life, until the day she dies, which quite possibly could be today."

"What?" Travis cried.

"Ed," Sam warned in a deadly calm voice, "if you and Harry say another word I will personally beat you to death with your own camera. How's that for artistic justice?"

"Whoa, dude, what's going on with your eyes?"

"Get that camera out of my face!"

"This has got to be the weirdest thing we've caught on camera."

"Not another word!" And with that statement Jamie drew an enormous breath, wheezing as she returned to the world of the living, also averting the attention of the camera.

"Come on, just breathe, that's all, steady breaths." She had Dean's arm in a death-grip, already trying to speak.

"You were right," she breathed. "I need...to get out of here."

"Is there any way you can repeat that for the camera?"

"Shut up!" Sam yelled, and Dean couldn't help but see the vase that smashed at that very moment as well as the slight gust of air from the now-open window, though nobody else noticed the small detail in the heat of the moment.

"Alright, everyone," Dean called. "Part the crowd. She needs fresh air; I'm going to take her outside." He lifted her up as easily as if she had weighed ten pounds instead of one-hundred and ten, and made his way through the crowd.

* * *

The ambulances arrived, in fact, _ten _minutes later, and by then Jamie was breathing normally and generally healthy, though still shocked at her experience. She seemed unwilling to talk about it, and the prescence of the camera didn't seem to help her nerves. When the EMTs did arrive, Natalie and Travis both went with her, Natalie saying goodbye to Sam with a simple "call me." 

"I hate Halloween," Sam commented sourly.

"Aw, you didn't have _any_ fun?"

"If you mean Natalie, I'm sorry about that. I really don't know what came over me."

"I do." Sam furrowed his brow. "You don't remember?"

"I just remember all of a sudden feeling like doing something crazy, like all by inhibitions were totally flushed down the toilet."

"Like Clark Kent on Red Kryptonite?"

"I guess so." Sam averted his eyes.

"You're lying to me. Sam, look at me. _Look at me." _Sam grudgingly brought his gaze up. Dean stepped forward looking into his eyes, tilting his head back into the light, and he could tell Sam had trouble keeping the eye-contact.

"Well?" Sam asked.

"They're back to normal. No sudden urges to make out with anyone? Because if you are, then let me get out of your way, because you're already a little too close for comfort."

"I just lost control," he said softly. "It won't happen again."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. You can't keep control twenty-four hours a day. Plus, she was hot and you haven't gotten any action since Sarah."

"What happened in there between Natalie and me was not of my own choice. Like I told you, I lost control. I couldn't help myself."

"All I'm saying is that it could have been much worse."

"You're right, it could have been much worse. It always starts off like that, the wild feeling. Then I get angry, and then-- there is no way in hell are you taping this!"

"We weren't!" Ed claimed. "God, no need to go all Evil Willow on us." Sam rolled his eyes.

"You think we should go visit Jamie tomorrow?"

"In situations like this, that's what we always do; why break the formula now?"

**Author's Note: Review, please!**

Yeah, you! 

I don't see you reviewing!

**Awww... come on, people! **

Please...

(-brings Sam in-) If you don't review, I'll set Sam's puppy dog eyes on you.

**You asked for it! (-puppy dog eyes-) **

Come on, just press the god damned button!

**Whatever, I don't care (-pouts-)**


	27. The First Rule of Ghost Hunting

**Chapter 27: The First Rule of Ghost-Hunting**

**alwaysateen: Good question, the one about whether or not we are going to learn the consequences of the necklace and if Dean is in danger because of it. Well, I can't tell you too much, but remember that you should think of the consequences it will have on_ Sam_ as well.**

"Welcome back," the demon greeted as the figure entered the room, her step as lithe as a dancer's.

"Good to be back, master."

"You've changed." The figure shifted uncomfortably.

"I've seen a way out of my old life."

The demon turned to Meg, clearly asking if this person really was ready for their first assignment.

"I've been there every step of the way. Potential beyond belief. It worked perfectly."

"Is it safe?"

"I believe so, father."

"Leave, Meg." Meg bowed her head and exited the room. The demon leaned forward in his seat.

"Listen closely," he hissed. "I am going to need you to do something for me. And it is the most important thing I could ask you to do."

The demon pulled a small peice of paper out of his pocket and threw it down on the table in front of him.

"I believe you are familiar with this one." The figure took a deep breath, uncomfortable.

"Yes."

"It should be easy. Bring him and the one with him back to us. I don't care how you do it, just don't kill either of them."

The figure picked up the picture on the table in front of them, staring at it for a second. The man in the picture was smiling, unaware that anyone was taking the picture. The backround looked like a campus of some sort. He was waving at someone.

The face was familiar. All too familiar. Her stomach turned over, resistance in her mind briefly.

Sam Winchester.

* * *

"Well, what'd she say?" Sam asked as Dean met up with him at the diner. Dean had volunteered to go in and talk to Jamie, because he figured one person would be easier for her to talk to, especially a person she had met before. He had saved her life, after all.

"I think we have another Bloody Mary on our hands," was all Dean said as he plucked a french fry from Sam's plate, sitting next to him in the booth.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Trust me, I'm sure."

"So I've been sitting here doing research for an hour while you just have a nice little conversation and solve the entire thing?"

"It wasn't exactly pleasant. And it's just a guess. I think the spirit, whatever it is, goes after people who've killed, but it doesn't matter whether it was an accident or what."

"And you assume this because..."

"Jamie told me about what it said to her. It played the guilt card, said it was all her fault. Apparently she's an intern at a hospital in LA. One day she made a big mistake; she gave a patient of hers the wrong dose of medicine. He went into a coma and within a week he was dead. Instant guilt, instantly a target."

"So you think that because the spirit is of a murder victim, she's seeking out people who have killed?"

"People who are responsible for a death. Not murderers necessarily. I mean, if you're a surgeon, patients are going to die."

"I don't think that's it," Sam said, shaking his head, his brow furrowed.

"Why?"

"Because--well--" Sam was holding something back. Dean instantly knew, used to the expression on Sam. For a second, Sam looked like he might have been trying to force himself to say something, but he pulled back at the last moment. "Never mind."

"This isn't about Jess, is it?" Dean asked tentatively. Sam shook his head, preoccupied.

"No."

"Then what is it about?"

"I don't know," Sam said, averting his eyes. "It's just a feeling."

"Well," Dean said, saving the uncomfortable conversation for later. "Unfortunately, we can't function on your feelings, psychic or not. Did you find anything out to prove your statement?"

"Nothing, so I guess we're going with yours."

"You don't think the Hellhounds might have found something by accident?" Sam snorted in response. "It's happened in the past."

"I highly doubt that. They're getting worse, if that's even possible. If they get in the way we're not going to get anything done."

"Getting worse?"

"Let's just put it this way: if I have to stay around them for an extended period of time, I'm going to have a serious problem. And by serious, I mean that I will probably end up killing one of them and ending up back where we started. Black eyes, objects floating, me turning into a jackass, the whole nine yards."

"That annoying?"

"It's pretty easy to set me off these days, but yeah. I checked out the revamped version of their website. They now have a videogame, apparently one of the most popular ones on the internet, based off of the Mordecai Murdock incident. They changed a few details."

"Is it fun?" Sam shot him a serious look.

"That's not the point."

"Research?"

"I figured we should know what we're up against." Dean smirked.

"What level did you get to?"

"I stopped at five."

"How many levels are there?"

"Sixty-five," Sam said grudgingly. Dean whistled.

"God, I forgot how much you suck at video games."

"The main point of the level was to save the gullible, innocent thrill-seeker from getting strangled before he died while stopping the other idiot who had set his head on fire from burning the building down. The house burned down and both of our characters died. I tried five times." Dean sat for a second with his mouth open.

"Give me the game."

"Dean, we have serious issues--"

"You think I'm going to let us get killed? Hell, no." Sam pushed the game over to Dean, who clicked a few buttons.

"You say this is one of the most popular games on the internet?" He asked, not looking up from the monitor.

"It was on the top ten list of most entertaining free internet games."

"I can't blame you for wanting to kill them."

"Got it," Dean declared.

"What?" Sam asked incredulously, leaning over to see the screen reading 'click to move to level six.'

"Sorry, but I kind of accidentally let you get strangled. I had to save my ass first, you understand."

"I played that game for twenty minutes!"

"Yeah, yeah. While you were in college studying some people were actually doing some useful things with their free time." Sam ignored the comment.

"It's more than the game, though. Apparently now they're doing webcasts, traveling around the country in search of supernatural beings."

"Have they actually found anything?"

"Other than a floating vase which they didn't even see, nothing. People eat their shit up, though. They have a fansite."

"Damn straight," a voice from behind Dean asked, causing him to jump.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam said.

"We're working on the very job that you guys are screwing up," said Ed from the booth behind them, closing his laptop.

"That we're screwing up?"

"Yes," Harry replied, coming over to their table, Ed following suit. "You guys are looking in the wrong places. You're going to get yourselves killed."

"You see right there," Ed continued. "If that had been a serious situation, you'd be dead."

"Hey, Ed," Dean said, "you know what I think would be great for your show? If it starred an actual ghost."

"Really? How'd we do that?"

"I think I may be able to help you out," Dean said, and Sam shot him a warning glance.

"Don't be jealous because we're more successful than you. Some people are just born with the gift. We can fit things together that you can't."

"Again," Sam remarked, "I'm not touching that line with a ten-foot pole." Ed and Harry turned their heads in complete unison to glare at Sam.

"I know," Dean continued, "it's just sitting there, waiting to be remarked upon. I find it's best just to say it in your head; it almost works."

"Anyway," Harry continued, "you've got it all wrong."

Then, against Sam and Dean's protests of "No, no, we're fine," and "Really, just _no,_" Ed picked up the laptop they were working on and sat down in Sam and Dean's booth across from them. Harry leaned over the table to look at Sam's screen.

"I see you only made it to level six. Amateur." Sam hurriedly lowered the screen. "All you need to know is where to look." Sam peeked at their screen and couldn't help the snort that escaped.

"The bogeyman?"

"Yeah, well we'll see who's laughing in a few days when we bust this case wide open."

"Oh, like the time you busted open the Mothman legend..." Sam muttered.

"One of our more popular exploits."

"_That _really says something." Neither caught the sarcasm in Dean's voice.

"The Bogeyman is a very real threat in the world today, which you will learn when we stream the video on the internet of when we journey into the house. You're welcome to come." Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean behind Harry's back. "We'll always need someone to carry our equipment, and you might even be able to get some camera time."

"Oh, tempting," Dean said, pretending to think it over. "But I'm afraid we don't work with hobbits."

"Says the people who call themselves professionals. One who spends time making smart-ass comments, the other just gets busy with girls."

"Shut up," Dean said, his voice biting.

"We were not--" Sam defended.

"I'm just saying," Ed continued. "She could have been a spirit, your enemy. How would you feel if you found out that you had had sex with a ghost?"

"We were not going to have sex!"

Dean quietly stood up. "I'd calm dow if I were you."

"Why?" Sam snapped.

"Because everyone in the restaurant just heard you and thinks you meant us, and to leave here with any dignity, I'm going to act like I don't know you before they assume that I'm screwing my brother. Goodbye, Sam." He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

* * *

**-That Night-**

"No sign of them so far," Dean observed, sweeping the Infared Thermal Scanner over the room. "Hey, Sam, can I get a light over here?"

"Oh, sorry. Here." He turned the beam's focus on the empty room. Then, responding to Dean's earlier comment, he said, "Maybe they chickened out."

"I highly doubt that. You actually need some sort of brains to be scared. And here?" Sam once again averted the beam.

"True. I guess I'm just hoping they don't show up."

"Aren't we all. I want to finish this freaking job and get the hell out of here." A bump came from around the corner. "You think that's them?"

"Don't know." Sam pulled out his shotgun, which was, as normal, filled with rock salt. "Can never be too sure, though."

Dean led the way around the corner to where they had heard the noise.

Nothing. The sound was gone, too. Whatever it was, it must have known they were there. Sam flinched for a second, visible enough to Dean to cause alarm.

"What?" Dean breathed as low as possible.

"Did you hear that?" Sam said, and Dean was immediately terrified by the pale, sickly tone of Sam's skin.

"No," Dean muttered. Silently Sam motioned for Dean to stay while he turned the corner discreetly, apparently in the direction where he had heard whatever had caused him to freak out. Sam's soft footsteps on the creaky floorboards were the only sounds that reached Dean's ears. Then they were gone.

Dean waited as long as he possibly could, but before long the stress became too much for him. The second he stepped forward, though, Sam's voice broke through.

"What the--" was all he got to say before there was a thud and a loud--bark? Dean sprinted toward the sound, only to be greeted by the sight of Sam, flat on his back, pinned to the ground by the oldest freaking bloodhound Dean had ever seen, who was currently licking Sam's face affectionately.

"Spike!" A voice called impatiently, apparently referring to the dog.

"Dean--" Sam said, trying in vain to push the huge dog off of him "--a little help here would be nice."

Ed sprinted around the corner, already out of breath from the short run. Harry followed close behind, holding the unused leash in one hand, a small handheld camera in the other, and a huge backpack on his shoulders.

"It's Merry and Pippin themselves," Dean remarked, smirking as Harry tried to pull the bloodhound off of Sam to no avail. It had settled contentedly on Sam's chest with no apparent intention to move any time soon.

"Original," Ed responded, digging his foot into the floor in an attempt for leverage with 'Spike'. Grudgingly, the large canine began to move, its tongue flopping lazily out of its mouth. Sam was wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket, his face scrunched up. Sam had never particularly liked dogs, for reasons unknown to Dean. "So you guys actually showed up?"

"Yeah," Sam said, pushing himself to his feet. "Likewise, I see."

Ignoring Harry and Ed, Dean addressed Sam. "Well, Sam, if we're going to keep them alive and still get this bitch, we're going to split up."

"Whoa," Harry interrupted, stepping right in front of Dean, almost directly in front of his face.

"Whoa," Ed added, waving his arms in a 'no' signal. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa."

"What?" Dean said, stepping away from Harry.

"Never split up," Ed said, rolling his eyes like it was painfully obvious. "That's, like, the first rule of ghost-hunting."

"Yeah," Harry chimed in. "Haven't you ever watched Scooby Soo?"

"No," Sam said immediately.

"We were always too busy saving dumbasses like you from bloodthirsty spirits. We didn't really have time for milk and Cocoa Puffs, you know what I mean?" Turning away from the Hellhounds, Dean looked at Sam.

"I'll do the basement this time," Sam offered.

"And I'll do upstairs."

"Did you hear that, Harry? Fred's going upstairs. How about you go with him, get some footage. I'll stay with Velmster, here."

"Ed?" Sam said.

"Yeah, Velmster?"

"You know that whole promise about beating you over the head with your camera?"

"Of course. The viewers loved it."

"Well, that promise still stands if you ever refer to me as a cartoon character again."

"A _female_ cartoon character, too," Dean added. Sam glared at him.

* * *

"I think he likes you," Ed commented, setting up his camera in the corner.

"The feeling is mutual," Sam said sarcastically as the dog pulled at his pant leg. He still hadn't found any sign of the spirit anywhere nearby. He spun the flashlight around once more.

"Whoa, what's this," Ed said, looking inside one of the many boxes containing the few decorations from the party that had already been taken down. Sam barely had to look to answer.

"It probably goes with a fake suit of armor. Might be iron, might be metal, can't be sure, but whatever it is it looks pretty badly made. Nobody'll miss it if you're going to steal it." Ed held it up and tried to swing it in front of him, realizing too late that it was too heavy for him to hold. Sam snorted and continued down the hallway a few feet, checking through his own camera, which was set to night vision. Then he heard it. The same sound, almost a hiss, but surely a voice all the same.

_Dean was right, _he though quietly. He was sure now what the spirit wanted. It took all his self control to keep oging, acting like nothing had happened while he was around Dean. Dean didn't have to know why he was terrified, what he had heard, what the voice kept repeating, almost as if inside his head, ever since they came through the door.

_"Murderer," _the voice hissed menacingly. This time it hurt. A searing pain ripped through his head, as if to rip his brains out through his temple with a fiery hook, and he dropped the camera in reflex, his brain not quite able to tell his body to move his limbs. His knees hit the floor, and something slammed into him, pinning him to the wall by his neck, choking off his air supply.

He had to reach his gun, but the spirit wouldn't let him go and he was just too tired. He heard barking in the distance, and could see the dog, so named Spike, jumping at the ghostly woman, his struggles to no avail. Then, in came Ed, waving the sword.

_Iron. Pure iron._

"Ed," he choked out. "Sword." Ed looked like he was hesitating whether or not to just go get his camera and film it. Eventually, though, he swiped the heavy object through the air, missing by a foot. Sam clsoed his eyes and waited. Just when he thought there was no hope, he felt the pressure release from his body, the pain evaporating. He grabbed his gun and shot the stumbling girl right in the chest, dissapating her. Once that was done, he felt something wet licking his face. Annoyed, he pushed the dog away from him.

"Dude, that has to be the coolest thing I've ever seen."

"Glad to hear that," Sam responded breathlessly, reaching with shaking fingers for his gun.

"Forget Velma, though. You're so Daphne. You see,_ this_ is what happens when you split up." Ed looked around the room. "Did you kill it?"

"No," Sam said, vaguely wondering if she would go after Dean. "We just pissed her off."

**Author's Note: Um, yeah, I apologize for bringing the puppy dog eyes into the issue last chapter. I do realize it was a bit below-the-belt, but, hey, it worked, didn't it. Yay! Don't make me do it again, please. :)**

**Coming up: We get more insight into Dean's views on the current situation, and both brothers lose their temper.**

**Ok, suckiest. Summary. Ever. But whatever.**

**Oh, and by the way, my friend Sam needs a car for her story (Bullets by BloodyMaryBloodyMaryBloodyMary), and the options are the two that I didn't end up using, so if you liked one of those cars and still want to see one used in a fanfiction, drop a review telling her your opinion. I would appreciate it.**


	28. Nothing Wrong

**Chapter 28: Nothing Wrong**

**Author's Note: I made a slight mistake last chapter. I accidentally had the dog listed with two names. Originally, it was going to be Dr. Venkman, but I switched it at the last minute to Spike. I fixed it, though.**

**Oh, and about the question of the necklace: yes, Sam_ is_ wearing it now.**

"I swear, Harry, if you say another word about Buffy, I will kick your scrawny little ass."

"Don't tell me you haven't found it intruiging. I think it relates greatly to the real things out there. What do you think?"

"I think you need to get a life," Dean said sourly, turning his flashlight around the corner. "I do agree that she's hot, but the facts are totally inaccurate. I mean, did _you_ see the musical episode?"

"Yes, well... that had a logical explanation. You see, a demon--"

"I don't care, dude. I. Just. Don't. Care." Dean rolled his eyes. "Professionals don't just burst into song." Harry opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. "You guys don't count."

Then the shot came out of nowhere.

_It doesn't mean anything, Dean. _Total silence throughout the house. _I'd better check, just in case._

"Where are you going?" Harry called from the spot he was at, setting up his tripod.

"I'm going to go check out down on the other side of the house."

"Whatever, dude."

"You're coming with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Come on, what would Buffy do? Would Buffy stay behind like a pussy? Don't make me get out the Scooby Snacks." Harry glowered at him, but folded up the tripod all the same. "Now, it's probably going to know what we're doing, so it's going to try and stop us by any means necessary. We need to bite this thing in the ass, and fast. Keep moving, too. Makes us a harder target." Harry quickened the pace, but Dean still outstrided him, and to speed him up, Dean said, "And we're walking, and we're walking."

The door slammed shut, as did the one next to it. Dean spun around to one of the remaining open doors in the hallway that didn't lead to a dead end. Only one, leading to the kitchen, remained ajar. Dean turned oh his heel, spinning Harry around and pushing him in the small of the back.

"And we're running, and we're running."

* * *

"So tell me, geekboy," Ed said, causing Sam to wince at the nickname (nobody called him that but Dean, and even that made him want to stab Dean with a dull knife). "What the hell are we doing here?" 

"You never know the creepy places ghosts like to inhabit." Ed raised an eyebrow. "I know, cliche, isn't it?" Ed nodded.

"Creepy, though. Even for someone as trained as myself."

"That's kind of the point, isn't it? It's a haunted house." Sam's tone was perhaps a bit too sour, but he couldn't help it. He had been in a rotten mood all day. His head felt like it was about to explode, and he was becoming irritable.

"Sam," a voice called from down the hall. Sam recognized it immediately.

"Dean," Sam called back.

"Yeah, no sign of the body, but it has to be somewhere. We just ditched her a second ago. Any ideas?"

"Well," Harry started. "In the movie The Haunting, the bodies were hidden in the fireplace." Dean ignored him.

"I thought you were checking the basement," Dean said. "That's the most likely place for it to be."

"There wasn't anything down there," Sam explained. Ed snorted.

"You were just wimping out because it came at you." Dean had a visible reaction to the news.

"It came after you?" Dean said, almost in a hiss. Sam nodded reluctantly, silently working out what the most painful way to kill Ed would be. He had wanted to keep that part a secret.

"I think I might have been getting close to something important. Must've pissed it off," he lied in a mumble. Dean looked suspicious, examining his face.

"Sam, can I talk to you for a second?"

"I'm standing right here." Dean threw a meaningful glare in Harry and Ed's direction.

"So, Ed, what'd you find?" Harry said, grabbing Ed, who seemed to not want to leave, by the arm, steering him away.

"Sam," started Dean.

"It's nothing, Dean."

"Is this about Jess?" Dean asked, repeating his question from the previous morning. For what felt like the thousandth time, he found himself wondering about whether the truth would be the best choice. Should he tell Dean the answer that would lead to a potentially painful conversation?

After a few seconds, Sam reponded with a simple, "No," though he was still undecided by the time he said it, and it came out sounding more like "No?" Dean's gaze turned even more questioning.

"Sam, if there was ever a time to be honest with me, it's now. Your life could be in danger. Now is she going to come after you or not?" Sam swallowed.

"No," he lied again.

"I know you're lying to me. I may not be the psychic of the family, but I know something's up. Are you alright?" His voice was suddenly sympathetic. Sam shook his head forcefully, trying to ignore the feeling that his head was about to explode.

"No, Dean," he spat out, suddenly angry, his voice filled with unintended venom. Dean looked surprised at his tone. "I'm not alright. Is that what you want to hear? I'm not. I haven't been since you found me. Life has been a fucking living hell for me, and it's not getting better." He couldn't stop talking, even though Dean's expression was still shocked. Once again, he knew someting was wrong. "God, do you know how annoying it is? 'Are you alright? Are you feeling ok? Are you in control?' No, Dean. No. Jesus Christ, I've never been ok."

"Sam--"

"No, you wanted me to tell you the truth. I can't remember what it felt like to be able to have a thought and not have to stop and consider whether it's really me thinking them. Even now, I'm not sure if it's me. And there are things I never told you, things I can never tell you."

"Why?" Dean asked. Sam just shook his head.

"You won't understand."

"Try me." Sam let out a sigh, closing his eyes, his headache blinding. He couldn't take it anymore. Another stab of pain went through his head, and he sunk to his knees with a groan. He vaguely heard someone calling his name, sounding scared.

"Is it a vision?" the voice asked. Sam shook his head. No, this was something different. "What's wrong, Sam?"

"It's back," was all he managed to force out. Dean inhaled.

"You were supposed to tell me," he said angrily. Sam gasped out again, opening his eyes.

"I...didn't know." Harry and Ed had turned around and were standing in the doorway, looking surprised, Harry with his camera on. Trying to keep control, Sam focused on a vase behind Dean's shoulder. That plan backfired when the vase exploded.

"Dean, move." Dean raised an eyebrow, confusion showing through the panic. "Move!" Sam threw an arm out, and Dean was flew backwards a few feet. If either Harry or Ed would have looked hard enough, they would have observed that Sam's hand didn't even touch his brother's body.

"You know.. what to do, Dean." Sam could hear the beating of his heart, feel the blood rushing through his veins, the adrenaline making everything clearer, details standing out though the room was spinning. He felt powerful; everything around him felt dispensible, fragile. He could kill Dean if he lost himself again.

"What do I do?" Dean asked, panicked, his eyes wide.

"I told you," Sam forced out through gritted teeth. He cried out again as another wave engulfed him, and doubled over for a second, the pain easing temporarily.

"You _told _me that there was a fifty percent chance it wouldn't work, that you'd be stuck."

"I don't have a choice. Hurry."

"You can get through this."

"Whoa," a voice shouted, which, upon further inspection, belonged to Harry, who suddenly seemed to be much farther away. All the sounds were blacking out around Sam, his vision blurring. Dean was crying out, and he could feel the wind whipping around him, could hear objects crashing down, doors slamming, the dog, Spike, yelping in the distance.

"The spirit's back," someone observed, and it felt to Sam like he was trapped underwater.

"No," another voice said, in a yell. "That's him. That's Sam!"

"What the--" There was another loud crash.

"Get my gun," another voice, barely recognizeable as Dean cried out.

"You're going to shoot him?"

"Who do you take me for? He's my brother! No, I'm not going to fucking shoot him! And get the dog out of the way!" With another surge, Sam's vision went, his eyes burning in their sockets as they transformed from brown to black. He felt angry, violent to no end. This had to stop, and now.

"Come on, Dean, just do it!" he shouted with what little strength he had left. Then the world turned upside down for a second. He could feel himself tilting forward, and with that it was gone. Surfacing for the first time, he barely realized when his world went totally black.

* * *

Sam's body went limp as Dean's gun made contact with him temple. Dean caught him before he hit the ground. Dean immediately went to check his vital signs, which were stable. 

"Check the doors," Dean commanded, digging through his bag. "See if there's a way out." That had become Dean's first priority: getting Sam to safety.

Harry immediately left the room, Spike, still whimpering, following him.

"That is probably the most screwed up, but coolest thing I have ever seen in my entire life," Ed commented. "What's wrong with him?" Dean's head snapped up.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with him," he said coldly.

"No, I mean, that was awesome. You could make money on that. But, dude, he tried to _kill _you." Dean glared at him.

"He's not going to kill me."

"Maybe you should get him help or something." Dean intensified his glare to show Ed that if looks could kill, Ed would be dead several times over.

"Yeah, like there's a support group for psychics that have had their brains permanently screwed with by demons."

"Medical help." Dean felt the blood rush to his face.

"Listen to me, Ed," he hissed in a deadly voice. "I am not going to treat this like it's a disease. There is nothing wrong with him. And there's nothing anyone can do for him more than what I'm doing now, and that is acting like nothing has happened. I _don't _need sons of bitches like_ you_ telling me that my brother is sick and that there's some sort of cure out there for him. Because there's not, and we're coping the best we can. So keep your god damned noses out of our business. Got it?" Ed was finally showing signs of fear, as if afraid that Dean was going to slit his throat at any second. He nodded numbly as Harry entered.

"All the doors leadng outside are locked. We can get through the inside, though." Harry now looked genuinely scared. There was no question now that he was the smarter one of the two.

"Alright," Dean said, taking a deep breath to control his anger. "It's official; the body is here, in the house."

"Why?" Ed asked.

"Because she doesn't want us to leave."

"Why would she do that? If the body is here, and by burning the body we can kill her, why would she want us in the house?"

"Because she wants to kill us."

"That's stupid," Harry observed.

"I know. But that's just how these things work, alright? I've been doing this for awhile."

"Your brother's the smarter one, isn't he?"

"Oh, and let's not forget that he's insane _and_ psychic," Ed added.

"You say that one more time," Dean threatened, his voice furious as he lifted his brother's body off the floor and towards the staircase, Spike following him, "and I swear to god, I'll let you hunt this bitch down on your own. You guys can be the next Blair Witch Project for all I care. Just _**don't talk about my brother like that**_. You have _no idea_ what he's been through." He had reached the staircase. Wasting no time, he followed the protocol Sam had explained, cuffing Sam's hand to the banister securely. Spike curled up beside Sam's unconscious body, nuzzling Sam's cheek.

"Stay here," he said to the Hellhounds. "If he wakes up and his eyes are black, knock him out again. I'll take care of this later. Even if his eyes aren't black,_ do not_ let him out unless he's dying or something. But other than that, no matter what he says, don't trust him. If it really is Sam, he'll understand."

"Does he have Multiple Personality Disorder or something?" Harry asked.

"None of your fucking business," Dean snarled.

"Well, then I guess we can't watch him."

"Well, then I guess you can just go to hell. If _anything_ happens to him, I swear to god I will rip your spleens out through your asses. Am I understood?" Harry nodded, followed closely by Ed. They had never seen this side of Dean, and really didn't want to find out if he really would follow up on his order.

Which he would.

* * *

Sam unwillingly felt himself return to consciousness, the cold wetness of Spike's nose against his cheek, his head pounding with every beat of his heart. But still, it was better than letting himself be consumed by the creature inside of him. He opened his eyes, only to see a face already in front of his own. 

Immediately assuming it was the spirit, he reached for his gun which was, naturally, missing. His heat racing, he looked back at the face.

Harry.

He had a flashlight under his face, almost like a child telling a scary story would have held it.

"Shit," Sam muttered.

"Should I knock him out?" Harry asked.

"Probably should."

"Ok," Harry replied.

"Hey, let me do it!"

"You don't even know how to do it!"

"Do I get any say in this?" Sam shouted over the two bickering nerds. Ed nodded at Harry, who raised something. "Whoa," Sam yelled, cringing back unwillingly. "Do my eyes look black?"

Harry's face fell. "No." Ed immediately turned on Harry.

"See, I told you. You were overreacting." Sam rolled his eyes. He tried to push himself to his feet, only to discover himself handcuffed to the railway.

"You're not going anywhere," Ed warned him.

"I know," Sam said calmly. He felt better, refreshed, more in control now.

"Mind telling us what the hell that was?"

"Mind getting the damn camera out of my face?" Sam answered, his tone cutting. Harry hadn't wasted any time pulling the camera out of its bag.

"We want to be here when you lose it again," Harry said from behind the lens.

"Don't hold your breath."

* * *

Dean kept searching through the house, checking every place possible. It wouldn't be that obvious; the cops hadn't found it easily, why should he? 

He just wanted to get the job over with. He wanted to get back to Sam, to make sure he was alright and that he hadn't hurt him when he knocked him out.

The Infared Thermal Scanner didn't pick up on anything in the bathrooms or the main room. It went off along the hallways, and he went into the room it indicated, gun out.

Slowly, he crept toward the bed, the lone piece of furniture in the room, burying the fact that it was ironic. After all, the Hellhounds had guessed it would be the Bogeyman.

Nothing. Five minutes of fruitless searching, but nothing. The scanner still kept going off once he reached the wall. He swept the flashlight over one last time, and then hit the floor in frustration.

There had to be another way.

_"Fuck," _he hissed, and leaned back on his heels in a crouch. He bit his lip, staring between the scanner and wall.

There had to be another way. This was the only place where the scanner had gone off.

Then it hit him.

"Shit, I _am_ stupid."

* * *

Sam hit his head, frustrated, against the banister again, closing his eyes and counting to ten, as Spike snorted in his sleep. 

"This is _awkward_," Harry commented, his voice raising an octave to show emphasis on the last word. Sam gritted his teeth.

"So, let's go over this again..."

"Let's not, and act like we did."

"The camera is off."

"And I'm still giving you the same answer. No radioactivity, no black holes, no space time whatever, no parallel universes, and no evil twins, got it?"

"Then what?"

"Psycho demon kidnapped me, tried a few experiments. Dean got me out in time. End of story."

"That's like a soap opera plot."

"Or a Dark Angel plot."

"Tell me about it," Sam sighed, though he had no idea what the last comment was a reference to. He had given up on their analogies a long time ago.

"Still, an actual psychic. Not every day you meet one. Do you think--"

"If you tell me to bend any spoons, then you can go to hell. I can't control it." Spike's ears twitched and he ran as fast as his fat legs would allow from the room.

"I was wondering if you wanted a spot on our show."

The door shut behind Harry.

"What the hell was that for?" he asked.

"I didn't do that."

Then who--" But Ed never got to finish his sentence, too busy being thrown back through the door behind him. Harry was close behind. The door slammed.

"_Murderer." _The word rang in the air. Sam tried desperately to get himself free of the restraints, but it was no use. The girl appeared once more in front of him, staring at him once more with coal-black eyes.

"_Hello, Sam_," she said in a cold, echoing voice. Sam's stomach dropped.

**Author's Note: Just to let you know, in case you haven't picked up on it, the reason the spirit is coming after Sam is _not_ because of Jess. You're not supposed to know who or what it's about yet, but you will find out...eventually.**


	29. Not Tonight

**Chapter 29: Not Tonight**

Sam tugged once more on the metal cuffs around his wrist, but still there was no give. There was no way to escape, and the spirit was growing nearer every second. Her face was inches from his, and though it looked as if her chest was moving, no breath blew across Sam's face. She raised a hand to the side of his face, her expression blank. He attempted to twist away from her grasp to no avail.

She looked to be in her thirties, wearing a white flowered day dress, her black hair flowing down her back, her skin standing out, almost glowing. She stared at him pitilessly, but the pain shone through from years of purgatory as a spirit, no body, none of her loved ones able to see her. Vengeance, violence, was her only option. She wouldn't ever find her killer, but she did the best she could.

**"**_Murderer," _she hissed again. and he could feel the energy coursing through her ghostly, semi-transparent hands into him. He felt he was growing tired, his body sliding down to the floor, but still he tried to fight her. "Don't fight it," she warned, reading his mind. Sam felt as if he was being electrically shocked, his mind going blank. For once, Sam could almost understand _why_ this girl wanted to kill him. But still, it would have been a pretty crappy way to die.

_My first official job back, and I die. I think I've lost it._

"_This doesn't have to be painful. It's more than you deserve. Did you give her the same consideration_?" Now her features were angry, stretching, becoming grotesque, monstrous. Once more, he was starting to feel tired, but it only made him fight stronger. He couldn't die. Not now. Not on someone else's terms. This was not how he was going to go. And yet he felt so tired...

Would it really be so bad to die? Would he still have to fight in heaven, or wherever he was going? Hopefully not. He didn't really have a choice in the matter.

He _hadn't _given that woman the same consideration. She didn't deserve what he had done to her. If he had done that to someone, how was he expected to live with himself? Death was a comfort, he realized. He deserved it.

_I'm sorry, Dean, _he thought. He didn't know if he was breathing anymore. He supposed he wasn't. The pressure on his temple was releasing and his head felt foggy. He could no longer feel his heart beating. His body was slack, sliding down to the floor, where his head felt surprisingly light against the hard floor. A door was slamming open somewhere.

"..getting this?"

"Sam...hear me?"

A hand was on his face, brushing the hair off his forehead, an arm around his back, propping him up.

"...alive?"

"...can't tell."

"This'll make great..."

"WILL YOU **SHUT UP**!" Dean roared, his voice growing hysterical. Apparently, he didn't appreciate someone finding his brother dying good entertainment. "Sam?" He meant to respond, but he couldn't move his body. "Sammy? Come on, Sammy, wake up. Please?" Dean's tone was terrified, he realized. It was choked, concerned. Sam tried to wake his body up, to start breathing again. His heart was pounding, but he could feel how erratic it was. "Dammit, Sam! Do I have to do mouth-to-mouth again? Is that what you want?" Sam felt himself take a deep breath.

"I thought not," Dean said smugly as Sam coughed a few times. Suddenly Sam could hear again, could breathe again, each motion painful. He still felt exhausted, but not so much that he wasn't going to assure Dean he wasn't dead.

"You got her?" He muttered.

"Yeah, Sam, I got her." There was a clicking sound as the handcuffs released the pressure on his wrists. "I'm sorry. I didn't think; I forgot how it might come after you."

"It's okay," Sam said, pushing himself up off the floor. "You found the body?"

"Yeah. And, get this, Harry and Ed were right. It was under the fireplace. I torched the bitch." Sam laughed weakly.

* * *

"Feeling better?" Dean asked Sam as he climbed into the car. Sam opened his eyes blearily from the half-asleep state he had been in when Dean had returned to the car. 

"Yeah," Sam rasped, and then cleared his throat. "Yeah, better." Dean smiled.

"Good." He stared out the front windsheild for a second in silence. Sam curiously raised an eyebrow. "Well," Dean said, leaving no hint as to what he had been thinking of, "Harry and Ed have offered us spots on their new cable series, 'Goblins and Ghosts and Ghouls, Oh My!'" Sam couldn't tell if Dean was joking or not. Dean let out a sharp laugh. "I repectfully declined on your behalf. I hope you don't mind."

Sam shrugged, a smile on his face. It was sad though. It seemed sad was the only type of smile Sam had in him these days. "Not at all," Sam said.

"They're developing a book series, too." Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I can't stand those guys."

"I'll die happy if I never see them again," Sam said in a half-joking voice. It still caused Dean's stomach to clench unwillingly. He couldn't help it; he was paranoid.

"I told them that if I ever see their scrawny little asses again, I'll set the crazy psychic on them. They're actually scared of you." Dean laughed, but Sam had the opposite reaction. "How ridiculous is that?" Dean prodded, but he realized, too late, that he had said something horribly wrong. Sam had fallen silent again, nodding uncomfortably.

Dean picked up the box on the floor containing his five remaining tapes, two of which he had been lucky enough to acquire new. He put in the one labeled Metallica. As far as he knew, what should have come out of the speakers was Metallica. Duh. But for some reason that Dean couldn't fathom, what started blasting at top volume was a loud chorus of Aqua's 'Barbie Girl.'

"What the hell?" He said, looking at his tapes again. What had gone wrong with his tapes? He had listened to them before.

Then it hit him. Who was the one person who would switch out all of his tapes? Who wanted revenge for a previous prank?

"Sam," Dean snarled angrily as Sam started laughing. As pissed off as he was, Dean was still glad to see the first real smile from Sam in god knew how long. His mood had changed from depressed to happy in the span of a few seconds.

"Who says you can't buy joy for ten bucks and thirty minutes?"

"What is this?"

"Mix tapes of Aqua, Britney Spears, Kelly Clarkson, Rihanna, The Village People, Cascada, and Evanescence."

"Where the hell are _my_ tapes!"

"Well," Sam said, pretending to think something over, "I had to keep my cast on for, what, four weeks? So I'll tell you where your stuff is then."

"You son of a bitch!"

"Yes, yes. And you'll never find them by rooting through my stuff, though. I know that won't stop you, but, hey, it's your time to waste."

"How did you get all that stuff on tape?"

"I have my ways."

"I _so_ hate you right now."

They traveled back to the hotel room, the car silent for once. Dean was unsettled when he looked over at Sam and saw the look in his eyes. Dean couldn't quite understand it, but he had that same feeling that there was something immeasurably different in Sam's face. Before he got the chance to place it, like all the other times, Sam caught him, and his face was blank again.

"Are you feeling alright?" Dean asked warily.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam answered, sighing as the question was repeated once again. He leaned his head back on the seat, closing his eyes. "I just want this day to be over. It'll be good to get a decent night of sleep." It _would_ be nice to get decent sleep, but even Dean could see that Sam knew that wouldn't be the case. Dean didn't know about the nightmares as far as Sam knew, but it was only a matter of time.

_Please, not tonight, _Sam prayed.

His prayers went to waste.

**Author's Note: Ummm... let's see, is there anything to say? Well, review, obviously. That's a given. Sorry this was a short chapter. This one and the next one were going to be one chapter, but the moods were a little different.**

**Coming Up: Guess. Just guess. But in case you're lazy or something, Dean finally realizes some of the extent of what Sam is going through. Oh, and a heads-up: the next chapter will end on a_ tiny_ little cliffhanger. Just warning you.**


	30. Drowning

**Chapter 30: Drowning**

Dean couldn't find sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind was turning, the gears too fired up to rest. He assumed that he must have dozed off sometime when he had his face buried in the sheets. He was woken, though, by the slamming of a door. Curious, and still half-asleep, he raised his head an inch, only to see the a light on under the bathroom door. He got up hesitantly, realizing that Sam wasn't in his bed, his sheets a tangled mess. The door was still half-open, so Dean declared it safe to go in.

If he though what he had seen in the car was as vulnerable as he would ever see Sam, it was nothing compared to this. Sam barely even noticed when Dean pushed the door open. He sat on the edge of the bath tub, his face in his hands, and what little skin that was visible was whiter than a lot of the ghosts they hunted. His hair fell limply into his face, and his hands were trembling, his right one clutching his chest, and with closer inspection Dean could see he was grasping the necklace Dean had given him, his knuckles white. He sounded like he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He looked up and jumped nearly a foot in the air. He never got a chance to regain his composure; he didn't seem to have the strength.

Suddenly, Dean saw what was different in Sam's face, what he had been trying to realize the past month. It was his eyes. The normal sparkle, the warmth that had worn off on everyone else, was missing. Without it, his eyes looked dead, haunted, sitting in his sockets, accentauted by the dark circles under his eyes.

He hadn't been sleeping, a fact that Dean had stupidly failed to realize. That was why Sam had been up before him all those mornings.

"Dean," he said, his voice sounding hoarse, his face not quite as shocked as it should have been, though his eyes did go wide. He put his hands in his pockets (he hadn't bothered changing clothes) to hide the trembling. "I'm sorry," he apologized, his abnormal breathing making him sound like he was panicking. "I..uh..." He shook his head. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"No," Dean said, trying to keep his tone comforting yet casual, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Bad dream, or what?" Sam went, if possible, a bit whiter.

"Yeah," he whispered, looking as if he was trying not to be sick in front of Dean.

"You going to be okay? You look kind of green."

"I'm just tired," Sam explained. "It's been...hard. Coming back to work, you know? But it's what we do. Nothing I can do about it." Dean sat down on the toilet seat, leaning forward in order to hear Sam's hushed tone.

"It's alright. If you need time, or something, I wouldn't blame you." Sam looked down, taking his hands out of his pockets to tightly entwine them together.

"No. It's not that bad, Dean. It was just a nightmare."

"And how often do you get that nightmare?" Dean asked, voicing the suspicion he had.

"I get different dreams, not all bad," Sam mumbled in a way that instantly gave away his lie.

"Bullshit," Dean said, his tone more forceful than he meant, causing Sam to look up all of a sudden. It almost physically hurt Dean to see his brother's eyes like that: despairing, tired, surrendering. "You don't sleep, you don't eat, and up until a few days ago you barely even_ talked_. You _still_ barely even talk." Sam looked down, realizing the truth in his brother's words. "There's something wrong with you, and it hurts me to know that I can't do anything about it. You have to help me out here. You _have_ to get better." Dean's voice had gained a pleading tone.

"I'm trying," Sam muttered, rubbing his temples. "I'm trying. What's done is done. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. But...there are some things I can't get rid of." Dean had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "There are some memories that don't just go away with time."

"Sam," Dean started, bringing Sam out of his reverie. "I need you to promise me something." Looking into Dean's eyes, Sam knew what he was talking about almost immediately.

"Dean, you know I wouldn't--"

"That's the problem, Sam," Dean said, his tone cutting. "I don't know what you would or wouldn't do anymore. I feel sometimes like I don't even know you." Sam winced, and Dean suspected he was going too far. "Your arm. The symbol on it. It's healing abnormally fast, and we both know why; those aren't normal injuries. Something that they did caused it to heal. Except for the one part. Because they didn't do that to you, did they?" Sam immediately looked guilty.

"How did you--"

"I _saw_ it, Sam. How long did you think you could hide it from me?"

"That was then. I didn't know--"

"Yes, you did."

"I wasn't going to make it long enough."

"What you knew is that I was coming for you."

"What I knew, Dean, was that you weren't going to get there in time."

"How do I know that it won't happen again? I need you to _swear_ to me--"

"You don't even need to ask."

"You act like a freaking zombie, man. I can barely ever catch you smiling for real. Now _swear to me_." Sam swallowed.

"I swear to you," he said.

"Look me in the eyes." Sam did.

"I swear to you that I'm not...I'm not going to try to kill myself. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Alright," Dean said, only half-convinced, though he suspected that was just because he was being paranoid. "Try to get some sleep."

Sam nodded. Dean tried to turn away, to avoid the painful conversation, but he had never been able to resist Sam's eyes as much as he tried.

_God damn you, Sam. You and your freaking puppy dog eyes._

Biting his lip, he turned back to his brother, who was still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head low, buried in his hands.

_I'm going to regret this. I'm going to regret this._

"Sam," Dean said, his tone cautious. "I want you to know..." he took a deep breath. "I'm trying too. I know I haven't been doing the best job, but you have to understand, this...this scares me. And I'm not scared for myself. I think I may give you the impression that I'm too protective or something. But I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't want them to hurt you anymore."

_Yep, I'm regretting this. Wait, why is my mouth opening again? _

"You make it seem like I won't understand because I don't know what it feels like to go through something like that, to have a memory that won't go away no matter how hard you try. But I do."

_Dean, stop! Stop right now!_

"That night in the car. You nearly died in my arms. I know that, whatever you've been through, it's a thousand times worse. But those were the worst moments of my life. And you have to understand that I have the right to be paranoid, because I don't ever want to relive that. I don't want to get that close to losing you ever again."

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Now you've done it, Dean. You've lost your edge offically._

Sam was staring at Dean, shock on his face. It had been awhile since Dean had done anything close to tell him his feelings.

"And," Dean continued, "I know you don't remember anything about that night, but if you had heard me, then I'm pretty sure you'd understand. I'm sorry--"

"I'm going to stop you there," Sam said.

_Oh, thank you, Sam._

"Listen, Dean. You don't owe me anything. You don't have to worry about anything happening to me. You're doing the best you can. Better than I would have expected of anyone. Most people probably would have left a long time ago, would have turned their back." Sam shook his head. "I don't blame dad..."

"What?"

"Dad."

"Sam, dad loves you."

"Dad is scared. And for good reason."

"Dad didn't leave because he was scared. He left to save our asses. He's coming back the first chance he gets. We don't even know if he's _alive_." Sam snorted.

"I guess you missed the memo."

"What memo?"

"The message he left on my phone. He's staying away. In our best interests, of course. He says he doesn't think it's safe for us to meet up yet, so he's going to keep working."

Dean ran a hand through his hair restlessly. "It's not his fault. It really isn't safe."

"That's the point, Dean. It's my fault he can't see us, my fault he left in the first place. Most people _should_ be scared of me. That night, you almost died too, remember? I almost blew your freaking brains out and I wouldn't have even hesitated."

"We don't need to talk about that anymore. This isn't your fault. You need to sleep." Sam, head back in his hands, took a deep breath, and stood up shakily. "I'll call dad, see if I can get through to him." Dean knew the effort would be futile, though. Sam nodded once more as he fell back onto his bed.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he responded, his eyes closed. Dean paused, wondering whether or not to ask the question. It was selfish to ask, and he was afraid it would hurt Sam more.

"What--" he started, the words choking in his throat, and continued with a supportive yet curious glance from Sam, who already looked half-asleep. "What does it feel like? What do you feel like right now?" Sam closed his eyes, pondering his answer, but not looking offended by it.

"It...it feels like..." he searched for the correct word. "Drowning."

Dean's stomach lurched at the soft, resigned tone of Sam's voice. Sam smiled sadly at him, offering no further explanation. He didn't have to; his eyes explained it all.

"Any more questions?" he asked in the same quiet voice. Dean shook his head and Sam turned over in his bed, burying his face in his pillow, blowing a breath out.

But, hopeful as he was that Sam would be able to go back to sleep peacefully, Dean was wide awake when Sam woke up, breathing hard and terrified.

And John didn't answer the phone.

* * *

-One Week Later-

"Do you want anything?" Dean asked Sam getting up from their table at Starbucks. Sam nodded, his head angled down. He had been complaining about his 'headache' for the past few hours.

"Coffee. The usual," he replied in his same blank voice. "Then we're out of here. I have a bad feeling about this place."

"Are we talking normal 'I don't like the look that old lady is giving me,' bad feelings, or 'I'm getting my Sixth Sense on,' bad feelings?" Sam shrugged without feeling. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. But Dean knew that wasn't the reason for his stoic behavior.

"I'll just get this and we'll leave, alright? Do you want to go out to the car and wait? I'll meet you." Sam shook his head, massaging his temples. Dean nodded affirmatively. Pathetically, Dean would be willing to do almost anything to get Sam to be happy. So far, the plan hadn't worked. Ever since that night in the car when Sam had revealed his prank, the trace of a smile hadn't touched Sam's eyes. If Dean had hoped that their little chat later that night had helped, he was dead wrong. If anything, Sam was getting worse. Dean would have to be deaf, dumb, _and_ blind not to notice the downward slope Sam was on. And it scared the hell out of him. Whatever was bothering him, he didn't share it with Dean.

He was depressed, there was no questioning it. Dean was getting lonely. It was worse than depression; it didn't feel like Sam was just more withdrawn. It felt like he was dying. Sam didn't do anything anymore. He didn't speak unless spoken to. His eyes kept the same dead look, his voice monotone. He never showed any emotion whatsoever anymore, simply staring, sometimes fidgeting, sometimes looking like he was thinking really hard about something. Dean would have given anything to hear Sam laugh again, to see him smile and actually touch his eyes.

But there was something else; something that terrified Dean more than anything. He had shared his fear with Sam, and though Sam had sworn to him, Dean didn't trust his word. Whenever Sam glanced at Dean, there were times when he looked as if he was memorizing his face. As if it might be the last time he ever saw him.

That was why, every night, Dean would stay up, pretending to sleep, but waiting for the moment when Sam would wake up, sometimes yelling out, sometimes breathing hard, sometimes eerily silent. Sam would get up, check to make sure Dean was asleep, (and Dean did nothing to break that illusion) and would go into the bathroom. This was when Dean would get out of bed, making sure Sam wasn't up to anything. He never seemed to be.

For the first few nights Sam got up and left the room, not even bothering to grab a jacket. Dean had tried to follow him, but he was gone before Dean could check where he had gone. He was always back before dawn, though, looking no different.

More recently, though, Sam's mood got even worse, darkening with the weather. He didn't leave the room; he just sat back on his bed for hours on end, just sitting there. He never moved, no matter how much time passed. It was like he was meditating or something, but his eyes were open. He sat there, staring at the wall, thinking. Just thinking. It was as if he was looking for something, and by boring his eyes into the wall he could see it. Then, for about an hour before he thought Dean would wake up, he would either watch television or type on the computer.

Dean got the coffee, not even bothering to flirt with the quite attractive woman manning the cashier. It took Sam a few moments to react when Dean sat the cup in front of him.

It was sunny outside. That usually would mean Sam would be in a better mood than usual. It was a thing Sam had, like he really enjoyed seeing the sky. But for once Sam didn't seem to notice the clear blue sky, his face worried.

He silently followed Dean outside, and, taking quick strides, was soon outpacing him. He turned a corner, and then the footsteps stopped. Two voices cried out in shock, and there was the sound of two guns being pulled. Dean was sprinting, and the first thing he saw was Sam, who hadn't managed to get to his gun in time, warily holding his hands in the air. The next thing he saw was Sam's expression. Dean was almost glad that there was some type of emotion in Sam's eyes, but it wasn't exactly the one he wanted. A mix of shock, disbelief, and horror was playing across his face.

The next things he saw was the person holding the gun on Sam.

"You," Dean spat, reaching for his own gun. The figure trained the barrel on him, and he mirrored Sam's posture, holding his hands up in surrender.

"What the hell are _you _doing here?" Sam breathed, recognition flitting across his face.

**Author's Note: See, I said it was only a 'little' cliffhanger.**

**Um...guess who it is. Seriously. I mean, when you think about it, there are very few possibilities. Of course, there's a possibility it's a character that hasn't been introduced yet. Still, Dean recognizes them, whoever they are, so it's probably someone we know.**

**A little clue: the person (PERSON hint hint) has been mentioned in this story before in AT LEAST one chapter.**

**Oh, and just to let you know, we WILL find out what Sam did, aka who's death he was responsible for. Let me tell you that it DIRECTLY relates to the story. It's not some random flashback from a hunt gone wrong. It's something that's going to haunt him for awhile. I'll tell you that.**

**Review!**


	31. Nora

**Chapter 31: Nora**

**Author's Note: If you don't remember the character once the name is mentioned, then go back and read some of the main chapters (the end of chapter 14 and chapter 10)**

**Oh, by the way, this was the chapter I spoke about that I absolutely hated. I still hate it, even though I've rewritten it a million times. It just ended up crappy in my opinion.**

"What are you doing here?" Sam repeated. Then, revising his strategy, (because he knew exactly why she was there) he asked "How did you find me?"

"Got lucky," she responded. "I wasn't even really looking for you." Sam looked like he seriously doubted that, but Dean couldn't be sure. The girl looked flustered, trying to hide the slight shaking of her fingers. Her pale skin stood out against her raven hair, which had grown a bit from its shoulder length. She had small features and was skinny to the extreme. Her petite figure was draped in a simple hoodie and slacks, which it looked like she hadn't changed out of in awhile. Still, she was rather pretty, her feminine features not quite melding in well with her tom-boyish attitude, but Dean didn't have time to appreciate it, given she was holding a gun to his brother. "I'm not here to hurt you, Sam," Nora said. Sam snorted in derision.

"Bullshit," he said, his voice hostile. Apparently there had been some history between them; Dean could tell by the way they were glaring. Both had serious issues with the other.

"Look who's talking," she commented, her tone matching his. "I don't remember you being too nice last time I saw you."

"I changed," Sam said simply, his face blank again.

"So have I. And believe me, you are the last person I would ever trust with my life." Sam nodded, giving her that. "But I have no other choice." Her face suddenly became more vulnerable. "I need your help, Sam." This one caught Sam off guard. His face paled a little.

"What?" He asked, shaking his head as if he had heard her wrong.

"I need your help."

"_You_ need _my_ help?"

"Yes," she answered simply. She took a deep breath. "I don't really know what happened. I can't remember half of anything. I remember somebody yelling at me, and I remember blacking out, and then I was me again. I was alone. I just started running, and I don't have anywhere to go. They're looking for you too, I think. More than me, probably."

"Really?" Sam said sarcastically. "You don't say?"

"Sam, I don't remember much. But I remember you. You're the only person I can go to right now. They'll take me again. Please. You know what they'll do to me."

"What have I done to deserve the need for your help, Nora? You never struck me as the type."

"I could just shoot you in return for the generous favoryoualready did me." Sam swallowed, but still wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had brought up a good point. Dean was clueless as to the meaning of her words.

"You see," Sam said. "Threatening to kill us is not much incentive for us to take you in." Nora cocked the gun, and Dean could see from Sam's face that possessed or not she would pull the trigger.

"No, actually, that is a pretty good incentive, Sam," Dean said hastily.

* * *

"So," Nora said from her position on the hotel bed, "it's been awhile, hasn't it?" Sam nodded silently, not looking at her. He had sunk back into his normal numb state. Dean realized that it was almost as if Sam had built a wall around himself, sheltering his mind, his feelings, from everyone and everything. 

Nora took a deep breath, uncomfortable in Sam's silence, not realizing that silence was Sam's trademark these days. He didn't blame her; Sam had been anything but quiet when she had known him. "Dean's your brother?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean answered for Sam.

"I never knew you had a brother," she commented. "Much less an overprotective older one. It doesn't look like he'd leave you for five seconds."

Dean turned to Sam. "How did she not know about me?"

Sam cleared his throat. "None of us talked about our previous lives where we were. It didn't matter, they said. That life.." Sam had to prepare himself to say the next words. "That life was over forever. It was useless to us, so there was no point acknowledging that it ever existed." Dean tried to look unfazed, but it still bothered him.

"So they didn't know I was coming for you?"

"The demon knew you, Dean. He knew that you would at least try. And he knew what a big threat you could be, with what we do and all." Dean nodded, acknowledging the words his brother was speaking. "Hunting spirits," he clarified for Nora's benefit. She raised an eyebrow.

"So what you're telling me," she said doubtfully, her cocky tone back, "is that you guys are modern day Ghostbusters?" A slight smile was growing on her face.

"Actually," Dean clarified, "we prefer 'Supernatural Specialists'." Sam made quotation marks in the air for him.

"You're screwing with me, right?" Nora said. "How much does that pay, anyway?"

"Zip," Dean answered. She opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off. "We do not reveal our secrets, though."

"We should get going," Sam stated, his mind wandering. "I still have a bad feeling." Dean could tell something was wrong.

"Sam," Dean asked warily. He pulled Sam to the side for a second. "Is this...bad feeling about Nora?" Sam bit his lip.

"I don't know," he said, his eyes down.

"Can we trust her?" When Sam looked up, he had a smile on his face. It was far from happy, though. It resembled more of a grimace.

"We can't trust anybody, Dean. You should know that now." They both glanced over their shoulders at Nora. She smiled mockingly at Dean and waved, knowing they were talking about her.

"I don't like her," Dean said.

"You don't like anybody. You don't even like me sometimes."

"I _really_ don't like her, Sam." It was obvious what he meant. This was more than the fact that Nora hadn't even started her bitchiness and that she had the potential to be more of a smartass than Dean. No. This was about Sam's safety.

Sam took a deep breath, running a hand nervously through his hair. He was coming to a decision. His face twisted and he looked up at Dean, his eyes guarded.

"I owe her," was the simple response. Dean shook his head, annoyed.

"I'm not even going to ask, because I know you won't tell me."

"I have to trust her, because she trusted me and that turned out very bad for her. I ruined her life. I might as well prolong it as well as I can."

"Well, there's one way to find out for sure whether she's a threat or not." Dean turned to Nora, whose eyes were wary. For a second they flicked to Sam, checking to see what _she_ had coming. He did his best to look supportive. "Christo," Dean said.

Nora had no reaction whatsoever, but Sam suddenly found himself jerking backwards, a sudden pain ripping through his chest that was gone as soon as it came. Luckily, Dean didn't notice. Nora did, though.

Sam stood there, trying to break through the shock to speak. "Nora, go out to the car. We'll be right there." Dean seemed caught off guard by the monotone sound of Sam's voice. He turned to argue, but Sam shot him a look, trying to say 'wait until she's out of the room.'

"You know," she said, getting up, "you guys are really weird when you do that whole talking without speaking thing. I mean, if you're going to say something in front of me, just say it. I'm sure I've heard worse." She rolled her eyes and closed the door.

"She's nice," Dean commented. Sam was still reeling from the incident. How could that happen? How could this be getting worse? He'd been _so fucking careful_! How could that all be going to waste? He made a note to be even more careful. "I can't stand being in the same room with her, and I'm sure she gets cockier than that," Dean continued. "Yet you actually made out with her." He shuddered, trying to lighten the mood. Sam shot Dean a serious look.

"Let's not get in to that. It was circumstances beyond our control. I was —well, I don't know exactly what the hell I was—and she was possessed. I know Nora, the real Nora. She's different than that. She didn't deserve what they did to her. The demon possessing her, however, was…"

"…a slut?" Dean guessed.

"Well…" That _was_ the correct way to put it, he supposed.

"Up to Meg's standards?"

"I'm not quite sure anyone could live up to Meg's standards, but she was pretty damn close."

"Well, that may be what she used to be like when she was possessed, but we know basically nothing about what she's like now. We thought Meg was safe, but look what happened with her." Sam winced at the memory.

"She's safe," he insisted, though he couldn't be sure.

"Why do you keep insisting that you owe her? _What_ do you owe her?" He tried to keep his voice casual, but apparently failed horribly. Dean had barely ever managed to get an answer out of Sam when asking about what had happened during his 'time away.'

"That's none of your business," Sam snapped, more venom in his voice than necessary. "But I at least owe her this. She does not deserve what we both know they'll do to her. _No one_ deserves that."

"No one," Dean agreed, then continued in a more forceful tone. "Including you. And that's what I'm afraid of: what they'll do to you. You tried to kill yourself, Sam! I'm _not_ going to have you try again!"

"Didn't we already have this conversation?" Sam said, his voice raising as well. "I swore to you! I promised! Now, I have been trying to keep myself in control, to not let this thing in, so that we could be safe. Do you know what that's cost me? Trust me, I don't want to go back there, but I have to do this. I have to take care of her."

"Is this because you had a relationship with her? I know that, but it's not your fault you become a man-whore when you switch over."

"It's not because of whatever we did or didn't do. That's in the past. Let's go." He turned around, wanting to get off the subject as soon as possible.

"God, why the hell does he have to be so freaking stubborn?" Sam froze. It sounded as if Dean was talking to himself, but he made no attempt to soften his voice or mutter it.

"You know I can hear you, right?" Sam asked tentatively, spinning on his heel.

"Hear me what?"

"I could hear what you just said." Dean studied Sam's face, puzzled.

"What did I just say?"

"You said 'why does Sam have to be so freaking stubborn?' and then I turned around." An expression crossed Dean's face that Sam couldn't read.

"What?" Sam said. Dean didn't respond; it seemed he was thinking very hard about something. He was freaked out, that much was obvious. "What?" Sam repeated, now nervous.

"I never said anything," Dean replied quietly.

"Well then who..." Sam asked, confused.

"What you heard...I didn't _say _it." Sam caught the intonation. His eyes widened.

"Let's go, Dean," he said, turning his back to hide his panic.

"Sam--"

"No, Dean. Let's _go_."

* * *

"Let's get this straight," Dean said to Nora. "You try anything, and I mean _anything_, then I don't care what Sam says. I will shoot you without a second's hesitation." Nora nodded, seated on the hood of the car, though the cocky look didn't leave her eyes. "If you want to stay with us, then you're helping out. You have to work for that extra room; I mean, we are paying for it." 

"It's not like it's money that you even earned," she said.

"Yes, well, since you have no gun now, you really don't have any leverage in this situation now, do you?"

"We have to pay for a separate room?" Sam asked.

"Unless you'd like to share your bed with her," Dean offered, looking questioningly.

"I'm fine with the previous arrangement," Nora said. "No offense, Sam."

"None taken," Sam muttered back. Dean wasn't stupid; he noticed how Sam and Nora never looked at each other at the same time anymore.

"Alright..." Dean said. "Do I need to go and unlock the room for you two? We don't have to check out now..." They both glared at him. "Or we could just get going."

"Better," Sam commented. Nora climbed into the limited space in the back, Sam took shotgun, and Dean slid into the driver's seat. He turned the key, only to be greeted by the opening of YMCA. Nora raised an eyebrow as Dean scrambled to shut it off before it hit the chorus.

"Sam," Nora said apprehensively, "is there something you'd like to tell me about your brother?" Dean finally managed to turn it off, and the car was plunged into silence as he pulled out of the hotel parking lot.

"Okay, everyone," he said, "get ready for the most awkward car ride of your life."

**Author's Note: Yes, Nora is back. You'll be finding out more about her and Sam's connection with her later. Oh, and it's not her that Sam's big secret is about. She's around number two or three on his guilt list.**

**Up Next: A few seemingly inconsequential remarks cause a very strange reaction for a certain Winchester, and Dean's reasons for his feelings about Nora are cleared up a bit.**


	32. Hesitation

**Chapter 32: Hesitation

* * *

**

**Erin:** I tried replying to your review, but I got this e-mail back saying that such an e-mail address did not exist. My computer is weird like that, and since it was an anonymous review, I couldn't PM you. If you want to, go to my author's page and get my e-mail and send me one. I can reply to that one and it should work. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and in answer to your question: There is quite a bit left. I haven't finished writing it all by a longshot, but I know it's going to be awhile. Right now, I'd say at least 15-20 chapters, and that's AT THE VERY LEAST. It depends on if I add stuff and where I cut the chapters. I usually only write about 8-10 chapters ahead of where I've updated, so right now I'm writing/editing chapter 40.

* * *

**_-Two Weeks Later-_**

"What the hell was that, Sam?" Dean said angrily. "What happened back there? The reason that it got away was you!" Sam remained silent, his face determinedly blank as if he was in an interrogation. He looked dead into Dean's eyes, unflinching. They had just finished their first job since Nora had come around. Well, technically they didn't finish it. The job had simply ended. Dean hadn't been there in the room, didn't know what had happened, but somehow he knew Sam had hesitated and it had gotten away. Sam hadn't been forthcoming about the details.

The atmosphere was suddenly broken as a door separating the two adjoining rooms opened and a voice rang through the air.

"Mom and dad are fighting again," Nora said jokingly, drying her hair (it had been raining) in a simple outfit of jeans and a zip-up jacket covering what they both knew was a t-shirt reading 'Do I Look Like A Freaking People Person?'

The comment wasn't even up to the standards of her normal smartass comments, but enough. The very sound of her voice annoyed Dean these days, and it was the last thing he needed to hear right now. This was it for him.

"I'm sorry," Dean said loudly, to an unresponsive Sam. "I tried! I really did! But I can't _stand _her anymore!"

"The feeling is mutual," Nora responded, unfazed. Dean had been making comments like that every day; the threat had lost its effect. But it was true. Dean couldn't stand Nora.

"Did I intrude on something?" Nora asked in a mockingly polite tone.

"Yes!" Dean yelled, and Sam's gaze mirrored the statement.

"Don't even get me started on how much _you_ screwed up," Dean snarled. He had hated Nora since the moment he met her. He hated what she stood for. He hated how now, just when Sam seemed like he might have hit rock bottom, she pulled him down a few more meters into the earth. She had the strangest manner about her. There was something up, and Dean had never hesitated to tell his feelings. He could see something in her eyes and he told Sam.

Naturally, Sam had been defensive, throwing out phrases like "You're just paranoid," and "You accepted me when I was posessed, didn't you?' when Dean had brought up his fears. But Nora looked at Dean differently than Sam. Like she wasn't afraid of Dean catching her. As long as she had Sam's trust, it didn't matter what Dean thought. But even Sam, when he wasn't looking, attracted her glances. It was her eyes that scared Dean the most. She looked smug whenever she looked at him, her eyes filled with some gaze that told Dean that she didn't have Sam's best interests in mind.

It didn't help that she was constantly trying to out-smartass Dean, a title that he defended violently. "You screwed this up almost as much as Sam," he threw at her.

"What part did I mess up on? I was the distraction! I pulled the fire alarm and ran." Sam looked at Dean as if to say "she has a point."

"Shut up, Sam." Sam looked taken aback, raising an eyebrow. "Don't shut up...I mean...you didn't say anything, but... you know what I mean!" Sam didn't even have to say anything. Ever since Nora came around he spoke less and less, to the extent of not speaking at all unless asked a direct question. Dean was learning to read his facial expressions, just to keep contact up.

Then, not caring that Nora was there, Dean continued their previous conversation. "I'm not saying that was totally your fault, but--"

"But it was mostly my fault," Sam finished softly for him, the first time he had spoken for over an hour. "How?"

"You hesitated," Dean said, his voice a bit too angry, perhaps, as Sam shifted slightly. "You hesitated at the most important part, and that could have cost us everything." Dean shouldn't have incited such a strong response, either from Sam or Nora, but both had similar looks of shock on their faces. Nora was glancing anxiously at Sam, whose visage showed the first real emotion Dean could see in it. Sam looked like Dean had bitch-slapped him. Dean couldn't see why; his father had yelled at him much more than this and Sam had been able to take it. "Now, we can't have this happen again, got it?" It seemed that with each word he was driving a stake into Sam's heart even farther. Nora stood up, a hand as she placed herself in between Sam and Dean, looking like she was breaking up a fight. For a second, Sam looked angry, then his face turned shocked, and then a strage new look that Dean couldn't recall ever seeing on his brother's face crossed it, as Sam had dropped his gaze to the floor. "Because we can't afford mistakes, Sam." His voice was much smaller now, careful as he tried to decipher what he had said wrong. "Do you understand me?"

Teeth clenched, Sam nodded, and Dean couldn't help but notice the hand that went to Sam's chest. Then, Sam unpredictably acted. Dean turned around to watch as, looking as if he was trying not to throw up, his face pale, Sam spun on his heel and walked so fast he looked as if he would break out into a sprint. He opened the door and dashed outside, now full-out running, slamming the door behind him. The room was suddenly silent.

From behind Dean, Nora was also showing human emotion. All the cockiness was gone as she brushed her newly-cut, chin-length uneven hair from her face, letting a deep breath out. "Well," she said, her voice tired, "if there was a worse thing you could have said, I'm not sure I can think of it."

"What did I say?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"That entire speech you gave," she said accusingly. "You said you're trying to make him better, to help him forget about what happened to him. You know better than to bring that up!" And even though Nora was yelling at him, Dean was a little impressed by the fact that Nora was showing she actually did have an organ resembling a heart in her chest.

"He doesn't talk about those weeks," Dean said, defending himself against the upcoming tirade.

"What?" she asked incredulously, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "He really hasn't told you?"

No," Dean said grudgingly.

"You mean he's been holding it in this whole time? What they did to him? What they made him do?"

"Yeah," Dean said, exasperated, his voice raising. "Yeah, alright? He hasn't talked about it! He hasn't talked about anything at all! He doesn't _talk _anymore! You know that!"

"No wonder he's so fucked up," Nora said, letting a sharp laugh escape. Dean glared at her, but she the smile didn't fade. Sam was the only thing that kept him from beating the shit out of her right then and there. "I just thought he was always that..."

"Depressed?"

"Yeah."

"He wasn't. He was different," Dean said defensively. "He was one of those people who, when he smiled, it was like you couldn't help it but smile too." His voice was still defensive, and he wondered whether or not he should be telling her this, but found he just didn't care. "It was like he was a sun and the rest of us were like planets, and couldn't help but be sucked into his orbit. He was one of those people you felt bound to protect, because if you didn't, then you would have to see that sun die."

"Jesus, melodramatic much?"

"That's what's going to happen unless he tells me. Why won't he tell me, Nora?" His cold gaze didn't leave any room for her to wiggle out of this one like the other ones.

"You really want to know?" Nora said in an aloof tone she would never have used around Sam. Dean leaned forward, putting both hands on the armrests, leaning down to her level.

"Yes," he said. "I want to know why." She stared back at him, her eyes narrowed.

"He's afraid," Nora said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"What does he have to be afraid of?" Dean asked, baffled.

"You," she said. Dean opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off. "He's ashamed of what he did." She rolled her eyes. "I don't see why, I mean--"

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Dean argued. "That was not his fault, whatever he did! It can't be that bad." Dean's breathing was hard as he stared at Nora's face, her brown eyes almost on the verge of mocking half-pity as she answered his unasked question. It _was_ that bad.

"I guess to him it is," she said, not looking like she understood it herself.

"For god's sakes!" Dean shouted, standing up, his nerves worked up, and started to pace. "Just tell me, somebody! I need to know. I need you to tell me." He leaned down to her level again. "You can tell me, Nora. He's scared. Why? Why is he scared? What did he do that's so bad he can't tell the one person that's going to stand by his side no matter what? Now, I know you and I don't get along, and for good reason."

"I think you're a selfish asshole," Nora replied cooly, her breath blowing across his face.

"And I think you're a cold-hearted bitch. But I need to know, Nora. And not just because I'm curious, but I think that what I'm doing now..." he took a deep breath "...he's not getting better. I don't know what to do. I can't cure him if I don't know what's wrong, if he won't let me Please," he finished. Nora took a deep breath. "I _know_ you don't care. So tell me."

"You deserve to know, Dean," she said. "But...it's not my business. If Sam wants to tell you, he'll tell you." Dean kicked the bed.

"I hate those sons-of-bitches!" He yelled, the words exploding out of him. All of his frustration at the situation, at Sam's position, was pouring out of him now that he didn't have to be careful because Sam was around. "I hate them! This is killing him, Nora!" He didn't know if she cared, but all the same his voice was pleading.

"It's killing him!" Dean repeated, his voice cracking a bit, but he continued angrily. "It's killing the Sam I know, the one I love. They're killing him, and it's my fault. It's my fault because I didn't get there soon enough, isn't it? While I was gone those assholes murdered my little brother." Nora's eyes didn't change, but he saw the regret. Deep, buried, but still there.

"That was the idea," she muttered, causing Dean to bite his lip against the frustrated tears. "They gave him a choice. They told him that it would be less painful for him if he just gave in."

"And?" Dean said, his throat dry.

"Well, I wasn't around at that point. I came in later." She suddenly smiled wryly. "But Meg told me about it, and I heard that it was very...colorful. The general gist of it was that he'd rather die than work with them."

"That didn't work out?"

"Again, I wasn't there. But you've seen the scars yourself. The ones on his arm. He intended to keep up his end of the bargain." Dean got shudders every time he thought about it. Sam had never let him inspect them, wearing long-sleeved shirts all the time and making sure Dean never got a good long look. But when Sam was sleeping, that was another matter, or when he was caught off guard. That time when Sam had been unconscious from the attack by the vengeful spirit those weeks ago on Halloween, after Dean knew he was alright but hadn't regained consciousness, Dean had rolled his sleeve up. That was the first time Dean really got an idea just how bad things had been for Sam.

"He really did try..." He really had to try force the words out. "He really tried to kill himself?"

"Once more, before my time. I came in after the first transformation was over. He was already...well, you get the idea. We both came in around the same time." Dean could tell she was lying through her teeth, as she did so often when talking about what had happened. Dean knew she was covering up for Sam, whether she liked it or not.

"Are you...like him? Do you--"

"Just plain possessed, Dean." Her eyes glinted, and Dean's stomach flipped over nervously.

"And you and Sam..."

"We had a relationship. I can't remember most of it." She sighed. "Too bad." Dean, trying to ignore the comment, dropped to his knees, lifted up the bed cover, and pulled Sam's bag out. "What the hell are you doing, Dean?" She seemed confused by his sudden change, still not catching on to the fact that Dean didn't need emotional conversations to last very long.

"While he's gone, I might as well check for my tapes. I can't find them anywhere else, so there has to be--how the hell did these get in here?"

"Your tapes? I'm guessing he stole--"

"No," Dean said. Nora leaned over his shoulder.

"Well, what's so special about those?" She didn't comprehend.

"I need to have a little talk with Sam," Dean muttered. Suddenly it hit him; Sam was gone. Sam had left. He could be god-knows-where, doing god-knows-what. "Where could he be?" he muttered to himself, his stomach dropping out.

"Dean, are you alright? He couldn't have gone far."

_"I swear to you that I'm not...I'm not going to try to kill myself. I wouldn't do that to you."_

But Dean remembered the look in Sam's eyes. The haunting, tortured look in his eyes. He wasn't promising anything.

"Where would he go?" he repeated to himself.

"Calm down. He probably wants you to find him, but not after a few minutes alone. Where's one of the last places he would ever think you'd look for him? And it's a small town, it can't be that hard."

"Like I'm going to listen to you," Dean snarled, the adrenalin making him irritable, his anger toward Nora coming out full blast. "For all I know, you could be leading us into a trap."

"Where's the trust, Dean?"

"It was never there. I see the way you look at him. I know you're not telling us something. The only reason you're here is because Sam trusts you. I don't." He glared at her once more, but she just stared back.

"You hate me that much?"

"In short, yes." She studied him for a long moment. She didn't even seem to notice the glare he was throwing at her. After staring at him for a good long time, she shrugged.

"Let's just find Sam. So, tell me: what's the last place you would find him?"

**Author's Note: What do _you_ think it is that Sam did? Drop the answer in your review if you get the time, and PLEASE review.**

**Up Next: Sam, Dean, and Nora meet up under a bit of awkward circumstances, and Sam's flashbacks reveal why Dean's remarks upset him so much and a bit of what happened to him and explains certain injuries. Warning: a bit of a cliffhanger next chapter. Sorry.**


	33. Sometimes Therapists Work

**Chapter 33: Sometimes Therapists Work**

**Author's Note: The parts in italics are flashbacks.**

_Sam struggled not to show weakness by crying out as the invisible claws ripped through his shirt and deep into the flesh. He immediately dropped to his knees in pain, but didn't dare heal the wound over, however temporarily. He deserved the pain. It was his fault, after all._

_"What the hell was that?" His master yelled from above him as he doubled over, feeling the blood trickle through his fingers. If he had been human, normal, he would have been worried about bleeding to death. But he had no fear for death. Not anymore. If he was needed to die for his master, now in the form of a middle-aged man with black hair and a deep tan, he would do it without a second's hesitation. "Was that what I think it was?"_

_Though Sam didn't know what the hell the demon was thinking, he nodded weakly, doubled over, and muttered, "Yes, I do master." The demon strode toward him and used one boot to thrust Sam's head roughly back up from the floor._

_"Look at me, Sam," he ordered, voice icily cold. Knowing that resistance would only make his punishment worse, he stared up, his eyes not quite able to focus on the yellowish eyes of the demon, who had trusted him with this job. And he had failed._

_The demon took Sam's face in one hand, his grasp stone cold, forcing him to look him in the eyes, which held no pity. "Listen to me, Samuel Winchester. You could have cost us everything back there. I thought you were ready for this. I'm ashamed of you." Still, Sam wasn't released from the demon's iron grip. "You know what you did, don't you?"_

_"Yes, sir," he forced out, controlling his anger with himself. Something deep inside him felt wrong still. He didn't understand; why were all of the others fine, and he kept screwing up? If they had just let him go through with Plan B earlier, then they could have avoided this whole fucking thing._

_"You hesitated," the demon hissed, inches away from Sam's face, his own expression livid. "The vital part, Sam. You could have cost us everything with your stupidity, your god damned **feelings!" **The demon spat out the word as if it here something horrendous. Sam flinched. Feelings. That was the word. He didn't have any feelings anymore, that was the point. But why did things keep going wrong? Sam's master was roaring right in his face, and the blood was slowly trickling down to the floor, his head feeling lighter by the second. Still, he dug into his reserves and kept himself alive, alert, disconnecting his mind from his body just long enough to clear his head. "Now, I have no use for you anymore if you are going to fuck things up. Do you want to be weak again? Do you want to go back to the pathetic creature you were?" Sam shook his head as much as he could. "If you can't control that part of yourself, then I'm afraid we're going to have to start all over again." Sam felt his eyes go wide with shock._

_"No..." he said in a whisper. "I can control it, I promise. I can control him."_

_"Stop," the demon said in a deadly voice, "referring to it as 'him'. You are the same person." Sam flinched. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to believe that he could have been that pathetic, that he still technically was._

_"We might as well be two people."_

_"Really?" The demon hissed. "Because your actions tonight contradicted that."_

_"If you would just let me do it already--"_

_"I told you, you're not ready! It will kill you!"_

_"I **am** ready!"_

_"Stop being insolent and naive, Samuel!" Suddenly Sam felt the pressure released as something hard connected with his cheek, sending him, struggling for breath, falling to the ground on his side. He lay there, trying to breathe, as Nora walked in the room, immediately knowing what was going on, her black eyes gleaming in the dark. "We're starting over with you," he said. "Apparently we didn't try hard enough." He turned to Nora. "Take him back to his room and tell Meg we're going back to square one. And before we start, I want all resistance gone. Nothing. No meaningless distractions. Do whatever you need to do, just make sure this time. And push it even farther. Give him a higher dose." Sam's chest was throbbing, but he felt, at this point, that it didn't even matter if he healed over the wound. Everything was going to go back anyway._

_"A higher dose could--" Nora protested._

_"Don't start!"_

_"We could push him over the edge. He could go insane."_

_"Well, he's no use to us if it doesn't work, so I don't see the difference," the demon said with a casual indifference. __"We can't afford mistakes," the demon said, rounding on Sam. "I'm giving you one more chance, Winchester."_

_

* * *

_

**Pete's Bar**

"Last place you'd look for him?" Nora asked.

"Well, there weren't any strip clubs or demon's lairs, so yeah. He's not really the type of person, but if he's depressed enough, he's going to start drinking. And believe me, Sam's not a good drinker."

"Violent?"

"Not really." Dean didn't offer any further explanation, and Nora didn't ask for one.

* * *

_"It's not working, father," Meg informed the demon. _

_"What," he said in a deadly calm voice, "do you mean by that?"_

_"He's not giving up," she admitted grudgingly. "We've tried everything. He's just not accepting it like the first time, and we need his mind open to it. He doesn't even know he's doing it, I don't think, but he's just being so stubborn."_

_"Put more power into it."_

_"We've tried that. Nora's in there, still trying. She's not going to get anything out of him. His mind is resisting." She hesitated, but decided to pitch her idea. "Let me take care of him. This isn't working; we've never come across anyone this powerful. He has too much resistance. I don't know what it is, but he's changed since the last time. Just let me kill him. It's better that way."_

_"No," he insisted in a hiss. "He has too much potential. I told you, I want him to give up."_

_"He won't!" Meg insisted. "That's the problem. He **won't give up**!"_

_"Then** make** him give up. That's what I told you to do in the first place!"_

_"We've tried everything."_

_"I highly doubt that."_

_"Do you have any ideas?" Her father hesitated, thinking._

_"He told us he sent Dean some messages when we did it the first time?"_

_"Yes, but we've stopped them ths time. That won't happen--"_

_"No. I want to send our own little message to him. Don't kill him, though, and make sure Sam knows that we can sure as hell go out and bring Dean in to join him."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"Give Sam my best regards."

* * *

_

Sam was exactly where Nora had said. He sat at the bar, seemingly in a conversation with a young man in a leather jacket that was supposed to make him look tough, Dean guessed, who looked barely old enough to be in there. Sam had a sour look on his face, and though Dean couldn't hear the words, he could tell the guy was bothering Sam. And at this point, that probably wasn't the best idea for the guy. The guy made some smartass comment, to which Sam made a reply that caused the guy's eyes to open wider and two friends of his to laugh appreciatively at the insult. The guy elbowed them and leaned down to Sam's level, his voice raising. Sam just kept looking forward, moody, not noticing the guy or Dean and Nora who had joined a crowd near the pool table; apparently it was a popular hangout for the locals.

"What did you just say to me?" the guy asked angrily. Sam rolled his eyes so expressively that Dean could see it from across the room and turned to the annoying kid, the only part of him visible to Dean being the back of his head.

"You heard what I said, Junior. And if you can't find a decent comeback, then I'm sure if your friends band together they can possibly form one whole brain and come up with something." This time people were starting to look around. The young guy's face turned red and in anger he pushed Sam off the stool. Sam landed on his feet, and still seemed to keep his composure.

"Look," Sam said coolly, "you don't want to start a fight here."

"Oh, yeah, wiseass," the guy said in a whiny voice that told Dean he was the type who didn't lose fights often, "I do."

"I'm serious, man," Sam said, obviously still in a pissy mood. Something was on his mind and Dean could tell he wouldn't be focused enough to win a fight at this point.

"Why? You chicken or something?" He and his sidekicks made the most annoying chicken noises Dean had ever heard. Sam sighed.

"Look, it's not like I don't _want _to kick your scrawny little ass right now. I'm in a generous mood. If you walk away, you can keep your reputation up."

"Oh, we're so cocky, aren't we?"

"Not cocky," Sam corrected, "just trying to do you a favor." The guy didn't bother answering and his friends backed off. It was him that threw the first punch. Sam ducked away without even seeming to try. The kid went face first into the bar. "Are we done here?" Sam turned around, but the man in the leather jacket's friends started cheering as he grabbed the back of Sam's jacket, yanking him back. Dean started forward to help him, only to be stopped by Nora. Hold on, she seemed to say.

Sam reacted lightning-quick. He grabbed the hand near his shoulder and twisted it so fast it was a blur. He ended up pinning the guy's arm behind him. He kicked out, sending the boy, red-faced, forward once more into the bar.

"Nice job, Nate," one of his friends called mockingly in a deep voice. He was skinny, with red hair and a bad skin problem.

"Shut up, Mak," Nate called.

Nate rounded on Sam again. "Do we have to do this again?" Sam said incredulously. "Haven't you lost enough dignity?"

"Asshole, I'm not losing anything tonight. You, on the other hand..."

"Oh, I'm so scared," Sam said sarcastically. Nate kicked out at Sam's chest. Sam caught his foot in midair and twisted, sending Nate to the floor. He jumped up, now madder than ever, but Sam stared coolly back. Almost everyone in the bar's attention was now on the fight between the two men, backing off to leave room.

Nate shoved Sam hard in the chest, sending him back into the pool table. He raised a fist to send out the first punch, but Sam supported his entire weight on his arms, leaning on the pool table, and kicked out with both feet. Nate fell back, and another quick kick had him on the floor, Sam's foot on his chest. Nate looked over at his friends and nodded. Two of the three stepped forward. Sam's serious face was on now. Dean knew what that meant.

He was going to kick some serious ass.

The first guy, Mak, went down simply by Sam kicking his legs out from underneath him in one abnormally smooth motion. He released Nate and took out the next guy, a man who had a mop of light brown hair that had previously been referred to as Kyle, with a roundhouse kick. That sent the third crony in, a bulky man with long dark hair that hadn't been identified yet, a pocketknife in his hand. Sam was too busy avoiding getting his nose broken by Nate to notice. He ducked and kicked, distracting Nate while he landed a good kick to Mak, dazing him for a few moments.

The long-haired guy advanced on him threateningly, the knife in his hands. He twirled it impressively between his fingers. Kyle was getting back up, and when Sam was distracted by him, the black-haired guy grabbed Sam and held him in a headlock, the knife at his throat.

Dean watched in fascination as Sam jumped up, completely off the ground and kicked sideways into Kyle's kneecap. Taking advantage of the loosened grip of the man holding him, Sam elbowed him in the face, grabbed the knife, and roundhouse kicked him right in the face. He went down fast, clutching his nose.

In the meantime The two others, Mak and Kyle, had grabbed two bar stools, holding them over their heads, ready to use them. Sam grabbed the bar stool from Mak and head-butted him, sending him down, too. He rammed it into Kyle, knocking him out cold.

"Don't you think you should get in there and help him?" Nora asked anxiously. She had a point.

Meanwhile, the man Sam had kicked in the face was recovering, standing up. Somehow Sam seemed to know what was happening, as he chucked the knife at him with as much force as he could muster. The dark-haired man just managed to duck out of the way in time, the blade imbedding itself with a slight bump into the wood of the wall.

A pool ball went flying at Sam's head, thrown by Nate, who seemed to have had enough. Sam spun around with almost inhuman speed and plucked the ball out of thin air.

"Does it look like he needs my help?" Dean said in answer to Nora's previous question. Sam hardly had a scratch on him. Dean couldn't tell if his eyes were black or not.

Nate picked up a pool stick and swung it at Sam with all the force he could muster. Sam ducked and rolled under the pool table. With one swift motion he had kicked the legs out from under Nate, bringing him down to his level. Dean was still amazed at his concentration; he hadn't even noticed Dean was in the crowd yet he could tell when someone was sneaking up on him. And the way he moved, without hesitation, swiftly, strongly. He had never seen Sam fight that efficiently. Well, not since...

Dean was snapped out of his reverie when he heard the sharp cracking sound of two pool sticks colliding. Sam now had his own, and had swung his down at Nate, who was still on the floor. Nate had blocked it with his, pushed Sam back and jumped to his feet. The next time his stick collided with Sam's, it was so forceful that Sam's broke right in half. It didn't faze Sam; he simply shifted his posture to accommodate the new arrangement. Nate threw out the stick, but Sam caught it between his two and yanked it out of Nate's hand.

The dark man with the knife had gotten it out of its lodging in the wall and was advancing once more. Nate attempted to grab the pool stick from Sam's hand and they struggled for a moment. Sam eventually ditched the stick in favor of hand-to-hand fighting.

The next few moves were so fast Dean could barely tell what had happened. Nate looked taken aback, but fought with equal force. It was obvious that Sam had been holding back before then, toying with them. Even Dean knew Sam was capable of more when he put his mind to it. Sam wasn't holding back.

As much.

Nate kept fighting, but still, he didn't manage to keep up with Sam's almost inhuman pace. Not many could; even Dean, who had always beat Sam no matter what, wasn't sure he could have snapped Sam out of this one.

Nate finally got a good hit in, and then shoved Sam back so far he ended up on his back on the pool table. Sam attempted to get up, but found himself pinned there by the chest. The man with the knife leaned over the side to press it firmly to Sam's throat.

"I win," Nate hissed. Dean assumed that would be where it ended. Sam would admit he had lost; it was a very Sam thing to do. But instead he kept fighting, reaching out with his free hand to grip the handle of the pool stick Nate had in his loosened grip. Sam lifted it over his head and brought it down to the back of Nate's head to the point where he could head-butt him.

This took care of Nate's grasp on Sam's chest, but also succeeded in bringing down the knife on Sam's throat.

There was one second where the world seemed to stop, when all Dean could see was the trickle of blood running down Sam's neck. But Sam was still alive, a minor cut on his neck, and Dean let out a breath.

Sam lifted a leg, knocking the dark-haired man off the side of the table, grabbing the knife in one hand and the collar of Nate's jacket with the other. He threw Nate off the side next to his friend and lowered himself to a crouching position. He held the knife to Nate's throat, holding the other man down with his boot.

"Now, what was it you were saying about winning?" Sam said, smiling casually, his hair falling down into his face.

But for once, he was caught by surprise as Mak pulled a jacket over his head. Sam twisted in his grasp, but to no avail. Nate started to get up, but for the second time that evening, Sam threw the knife, and Nate just managed to to duck in time.

"God, I love it when he does that," Nora commented. Dean could just stand there, his mouth agape like the rest of the small crowd that was gathered. The knife had hit the dartboard.

A bull's eye.

Sam had managed to throw the knife into the bull's eye. _Without even seeing it._

"Wait," Dean said. "He's done that _before_?"

"Well, not _that _specifically, but, yeah. When he was..." Dean was already removing his jacket.

"I'm going in."

Sam had managed to twist himself around and kick the man in the kneecaps, and was now on his feet, facing Nate and the knife-guy. Dean didn't give him a chance to attack, pulling Sam by the collar.

It was official. Dean could see Sam's eyes clearly now, and they were as black as ever. He didn't stop when he saw Dean, either, his gaze still cold.

Dean pinned Sam down, his arm behind his back. Sam twisted around violently and knocked Dean sideways onto the floor. Dean lashed out, kicking Sam in the kneecaps, and sending him to the ground

"Sam!" Dean yelled as his brother sprung to his feet, not even seeming to notice the pain. He kicked out at Dean. The oldest Winchester had to flatten himself against the floor to avoid Sam's boot in his face. The second time, Sam aimed lower to get Dean's face again, but he slid himself backward far enough to get up into a crouching position. One guy was holding a pool stick, and with a slight gesture from Dean, he handed it over.

Sam attempted to grab the stick from Dean's hand, but Dean's grip didn't loosen. Sam yanked him up and shoved him against the wall by the neck.

"You know," Dean said as Sam shoved him against another wall, his voice strained as his back made impact. "I'm having a painful flashback right now." Sam's brow furrowed, and Dean took the opportunity to hit Sam in the forehead with the pool stick.

He pulled Sam back by the collar, throwing him back against the pool table. He pinned him there by the neck with the pool stick. Sam struggled and eventually managed to kick Dean in the stomach. With one smooth motion he had reversed their positions, less than two seconds having elapsed. He pushed down on Dean's neck, cutting off the circulation.

Dean's vision began to blur, but he could see when Sam's brow furrowed, the brown seeping back in.

Sam dropped the stick, letting go of it as if it had physically burned him.

"Oh, my god," he breathed, stepping back. Scattered applause and cheers were breaking out through the crowd. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam. Say goodbye to all your new friends." Stunned, and looking as though he had been slapped, Sam nodded. Perhaps a little too roughly, Dean guided him out the door, leaving the room in complete silence.

"I think it's safe to say that was the second worst bar experience we're ever been through," Dean said.

"Second worst?" Nora asked. "What was the first?"

"Don't ask."

"It was the third," Sam said quietly. He over at Nora for a second, but she looked away, uncomfortable.

"That's it, Sam," Dean said. "When we get back to the hotel, we're having a little chat. You are going to tell me what that was and what the fuck happened to you, got it?"

Sam's eyes widened, and he looked just a step behind carefully concealed terror. He nodded.

* * *

"First of all, Sam," Dean started, sitting on his bed facing Sam, "what the hell was that?" 

"I believe it was a barfight," Nora finished for Sam. Dean glared at her and she nodded. "Right, I'll go right now. Awesome job, though, Sam." Sam smiled weakly, wiping the blood off his neck with a towel Dean had given him. The door closed, and Sam swallowed.

"Is that what you do every night, Sam? Is that where you go when you have your nightmares? You go and get into fights or something? It makes you feel alive? There are better ways than beating the crap out of neighborhood kids."

"I didn't beat the crap out of them."

"The kid you hit with the bar stool was unconscious for five minutes. He called his freaking mom to pick him up. And that stunt with the knife? I know that wasn't a lucky throw."

"No, it wasn't. But it wasn't because I..."

"Whatever, Sam. That's not what I want to talk to you about anyway." Sam paled considerably.

"What..." Sam started again, clearing his already-hoarse throat. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Sam had an 'I thought you'd say that' look on his face.

"There's not much to tell. They broke me down, turned me into that, and you found me. The rest is history."

"There's more to it than that."

"Not much but insignificant details."

"Nothing's insignificant. I know that you were possessed for awhile before we ran into each other. I know there's something that's haunting you, something that you did, that you don't want to tell me."

"There are a lot of things I don't want to tell you," Sam said.

"I'm not trying to make you tell me. I know there are some things that don't go away, but if you tell me I can help it be easier for you."

"Do realize how much you sound like a therapist right now?"

"Sometimes therapists work."

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"What did you do, Sam?" Dean said, his gaze peircing. Sam looked away.

"I can't tell you, Dean. I can't. Not now."

"Not ever? Sam, come on, you know me. I'm different from a therapist. I care about you more, I know more about you."

"That's why, Dean!" Sam said, his voice raising an octave, his hands shaking. He looked terrified.

"What do you mean, Sam? I don't understand."

"Because I know you, because I have to face you, look into your eyes every day! _That'_s why I can't tell you what I did!"

"WHY NOT!" Dean yelled.

Sam stood there, breathing like he had just run a long distance. He looked down for a few seconds, and then answered to his feet, "Because I know you'll never forgive me." His voice was a whisper. Dean froze, caught off guard. Nora had said he was afraid of Dean's reaction, but to think that Dean would never forgive him?

"What makes you think that, Sam?"

"Because I know you, Dean. You'll say you forgive me, sure. You'll say that it wasn't my fault. But you'll never look at me the same way again. I'm not the victim, Dean."

"Does what you did have anything to do with these?" Dean asked quietly, pulling out the newspapers.

"What?" Sam said, but his eyes gave away his bluff.

"I found these in your bag."

"Yeah," Sam said, shrugging. "What's wrong with wanting to read the newspapers?"

"Maybe it's the fact that they date back to over a month ago." Sam was still desperately trying to look casual. "They're the ones I was missing, the ones that you said you hadn't seen. They're the ones you stole."

"I didn't--"

"They date back to about a week before I found you. Why's that?" Sam was officially panicking now.

"Give those back, Dean," he said.

"Why did you even want to keep them so long? If you didn't want me to see them, then why didn't you just toss them out? Did you _want _me to see them?"

"Please," Sam said.

"Would you rather I find out what you did by looking through them or would you rather just tell me yourself?"

Sam's eyes were wide, scared. He was trapped and looking for a way out, and, as cruel as it seemed to Dean, he wasn't going to give his baby brother an exit. "Please, Dean," he said, his eyes full puppy-dog mode. Dean had to clench his teeth to hold himself back from caving in. "Don't make me do this," Sam pleaded.

"I want you to get better. But I have to know what's going on here." Sam hesiated for a moment and then, trembling head to foot, silently beckoned for the papers. Dean gave them to him. Selecting the second one, he opened up the page, looking like we was going to throw up as he saw the headline he was looking for. He looked up at Dean.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. He handed the page to Dean, who at first couldn't tell which one Sam was talking about. Then he saw it.

"Sam, you can't feel guilty because--"

"You don't understand," Sam said, his voice monotone. "It was _me_."

Dean's stomach dropped out, the room spun, and his hands suddenly started shaking. Sam didn't look much better.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, sounding on the verge of a breakdown.

Dean couldn't think of anything to say.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the little cliffie there.**

**3 reviews last chapter? 3? Come on, people, you're making Sam sad. **

**Sam: Yeah, you are.**

**Dean: And if he's depressed, and you're the reason, then I'm afraid I'll have to kick your sorry asses. :)**

**Do you want Sam to be depressed for much longer? Do you want me to** **bring the puppy dog eyes into this again? I really didn't want to have to sink that low, but if I have to, I will.**

**Anyway, the more reviews I get, the sooner the new chapter comes out. It's really not that many I'm expecting. Just 8 reviews and the chapter will be out in three days like normal. That's it. That's not much, right?**

**When you first see the 'big secret' thing, you might not get it at first, but it will be elaborated on throughout future chapters. What do you think it is? I haven't really given out many clues. Just basically think of what the worst possible thing Sam could do that would make Dean and John upset when they found out, and make Sam never able to forgive himself. And yes, the death Sam was responsible for is in direct link to the big secret.**

**Up Next: It's pretty obvious at this point, don't you think?**

**Until next time...**


	34. Stupid Feelings

**Chapter 34: Stupid Feelings**

**Fire Claims Local Wife and Mother. Husband Claims To Have Been Arson, Though Evidence Contradicts**

Sam could tell what was coming, waited for the explosion. He studied Dean's face, expectant, but his face remained blank. Sam's stomach was turning over and over, his hands trembling. He was afraid to move.

Dean's mouth moved silently, forming a little O, as if he wanted to say something but didn't know what. He pried his eyes off the page and glued them on Sam's pale face. Sam couldn't seem to make himself breathe.

"I..." Dean said, barely audible. He was trying to remain calm, that much was plainly obvious. "I didn't know," he breathed, wondering if Sam could even hear him. "I...I had no idea."

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated.

"How is that possible?" Dean mouthed, barely any sound coming out. Sam knew what he meant.

"It usually_ is_ just the demon. I was a special case. I couldn't fight it. I tried, but all I ended up doing was hesitating for a few seconds and finishing it. And they got me for it, later."

"That's why you were so upset when I gave you the whole speech?" Sam nodded.

"I shouldn't have freaked out like that," Sam said, his voice trembling. "It's just...those were almost the exact words the demon used after..." Sam made a sound that resembled choking. "After it happened," he finished, dropping his gaze, biting his lip against the fristrated tears.

"So you...you killed that mother?" Sam winced but nodded.

"Like I said, I was a special case. It was a test to see if I was like the others, to see if I was safe. They wanted to confirm my loyalty, to make sure I could handle it. The demon knew that if I could do that, then there was nothing that anyone could do to break his hold on me." He took a deep breath. "But I got there, and I almost didn't go through with it. I...this is going to sound ridiculous...but I saw the kid, the older brother of the kid I was supposed to curse forever. He must have been four or five and I swear he looked just like you when you were that age. And for a split second, it _was_ you. You were younger, and blonde and had this stupid little bowl haircut, but it was you. It was only a second, but we almost didn't finish the job. I went through on my end, though. I had to take care of the mother. And I did. Then the demon took the little baby and implanted him just like he did me. And then it happened again; I knew what I was doing was wrong but I couldn't do anything about it. "

"Calm down," Dean said, for Sam's breathing was becoming erratic, his face white as a sheet. "It's not your fault," he comforted.

"But it is, Dean!" Sam said, his head snapping up. His eyes were tortured. "Don't you understand? It's _my_ fault that woman is dead, _my_ fault that family is cursed forever, and...and _my_ fault that kid is going to grow up to be just like me." Sam closed his eyes, collapsing onto the bed, his head in his hands so he didn't have to look at Dean's face anymore.

"How is what they did to you your fault?"

"Because I could have fought them," Sam muttered with conviction into his hands. "I could have killed myself, done _anything _to make sure they didn't--"

"Sam," Dean said loudly. "_Stop it_!" Sam's mouth opened in surprise. Dean's outburst was the last thing he had expected. "Stop this fucking self-hatred routune because it's not right and I'm sick of it!" His voice had risen to a yell. Sam's shocked look seemed frozen on his face, and Dean rested his hands on Sam's shoulders. "You can't do this to yourself, alright? You can't. There was nothing you could have done. Now, in that house, that wasn't you. How do I know that?" Dean's voice had gotten back to almost normal. "Do you think you would normally kill innocent people and burn down a house?" His eyes bored into Sam's and the younger Winchester was almost calmed by his brother's cool eyes. "No, you wouldn't. The matter is settled." Sam swallowed, nodding unconvincingly.

"You're...you're not going to tell dad, are you?" He asked. Dean shook his head.

"No," he said. "He'll just..." he shook his head agian "...you know dad."

"He'll freak out," Sam finished. "Hell, even you freaked out."

"You have to give me points; I'm trying my best to get my mind around this. Don't be worried about me. You need to worry about yourself. How often do you dream about it?"

"Every night," Sam said in a rough voice.

"What do you owe Nora? What did you do to her?"

"Dean, I don't want to talk about that."

"Too fucking bad," Dean said, his voice hard. Then, calming down, he added, "You'll feel better after you tell me."

"I was the one that brought her in. I was the one that was responsible for them possessing her."

"That's why she had a problem with you when we first met?"

"Well, Nora's always been a little...you know."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I do."

There was an awkward silence. Sam waited for Dean to start talking, and Dean was thinking about these consequences.

"You two had a relationship," Dean stated. It wasn't a question.

"The possessed her and the evil me. Not anymore, though."

"Thank god." Dean paused for a second. "Do you ever think that maybe--just maybe--she might be still communicating with them?" For the first time Sam actually looked like he was thinking about it.

"No," he said eventually, his voice certain. He shook his head. "No, she's not."

"How do we know they didn't do to her what they did to you?" Once more, Sam shook his head.

"Impossible," he said. "It has to be done at the six month birthday at the latest. Any younger and it can't get a grip on the person's mind, any older the mind fights it off. Once it's in your mind, though, it's there for life, like in my case." Sam smiled humorlessly. Dean felt a pain in his chest at Sam's reaction. "And we know she's not possessed..."

Dean finished for him. "Because we said Christo," he said, and he couldn't help but notice that Sam cringed at the word. His stomach clenched. "Sam..." He said warily. Sam grimaced, still doubled over. His eyes said that he had wished Dean hadn't noticed it. Too late.

"That's another thing, Dean," he said, his voice pained. He furrowed his brow guiltily. "I can't say it anymore."

Dean nodded numbly. It was the only reaction he could think of.

Well, there was one more.

* * *

Dean didn't know why he hadn't thought of this before. 

"You were right," Sam said, smiling a little bit as he downed another copious amount of liquid out of the glass. "I do feel better now that it's out and over with."

"Well, I'm pretty sure the alcohol helped just a little," Dean said, smiling as Sam fell over a little before catching himself. Sam was definitely not the best drinker in the world. "You might want to give me that. I think you've had enough for one night."

"No," Sam said, laughing a little. "I mean it. It always feels better when I talk to you, you know?"

"No, I don't," Dean said.

"Ever since we were kids, you've always been there--"

"Sam, no. You're drunk. So I'm going to stop you before you say something you're going to regret."

"I'm not drunk," Sam objected, but started another laughing fit as he tipped forward again.

"Dude, you're hammered," Dean said grinning.

"Maybe just a little," Sam admitted, holding his fingers apart to show the amount. "But I do feel better with you around. You don't know--"

"Seriously, Sam."

"That's right," Sam said, his words slurring a bit. "I forgot. You don't like that whole talking shit. You don't really care about feelings and stuff. They don't matter, that's what you'd always say." Dean looked away guiltily.

"You know I don't--"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sam said. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." Dean rolled his eyes.

"I think you've had enough. Sleep it off."

"No," Sam said forcefully, almost sounding sober. "I don't...I don't want to sleep."

"It's alright, Sam, I'm right here." Sam fell back against the pillows.

"That's the problem," Sam said, closing his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I wake up sometimes and I'm...It's kind of funny." Sam laughed a little. "My eyes are all black, it's kind of cool."

"You wake up that way? How often?" Sam snorted.

"I can't remember," he said, chuckling a little, and then started humming an off-pitch version of the YMCA song that had been stuck on Dean's car radio all day.

"Sam, can I ask you something? Concentrate for a second." It was a useless task. Sam was already half out of it. His eyes opened blearily, the puppy dog eyes having their full effect on Dean.

"Yeah, Dean?" he asked, his voice tired, and for once not sounding depressed. Dean had to take a deep breath before asking.

_He won't remember this in the morning, Dean. He never can, _he assured himself.

"Why'd you do it, Sam?"

"Do what?" Sam tilted his head to the side, sitting up, having to steady himself for a moment which caused him to giggle a little for a second. Those last few minutes were the first times Dean had seen Sam's smile for weeks. He realized how much he had missed it, and was discouraged by the fact that Sam only let it out when he had alcohol in his system. Getting Sam drunk may have been the wrong thing to do, but the guy needed to lighten up.

There were so many things Dean wanted to ask, and he could ask pretty much any of them. But as he looked into those brown eyes, vulnerable, suddenly feeling bad about taking advantage of him, he could only ask one thing.

"Why'd you leave?" Sam hadn't given him an answer in the car. Not a straight out one, at least. Sam rolled his eyes, giving him a look that told Dean he was severely annoyed by the question.

"You know why," he said, taking a very deep breath. It took him a second to remember to let it out and laughed once.

"Sam," Dean said, getting his attention once more.

"Look, can we talk about this later?" Sam said.

"No, we can't," Dean insisted.

"My head feels funny," Sam said, his eyes cloudy.

"That would be the point of you getting hammered. Now, I would prefer if we could get this over before you start puking your guts out. Because that's going to be the unpleasant part."

"You really know how to ruin a mood, don't you?" Sam said.

"Why did you go with Meg?" Sam but his lip, and once more, Dean felt guilty for doing this.

_He won't remember, Dean. He won't._

"Because I love you. You and dad. You know it, too." Sam leaned back against his pillow again. "And because you deserve better than me," he muttered again.

"What?"

"You heard me." Sam looked depressed again, but not sober-depressed, so that was a relief. "I started all this, I might as well end it, too. It makes sense, doesn't it?" He looked like any normal person should have understood.

"Is that why you wanted to die, too?"

"Oh, god," Sam said in an annoyed voice. "You're not going to go into that _again_, are you?"

"Yeah, I am."

"You're totally ruining this."

"Yes, I am," Dean repeated. Sam shrugged indifferently, immediately going back to humming.

"Highway to Hell?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. It's kind of like, I'm going on the highway to hell. You know?"

"No," Dean said, laughing. "I didn't get a word of what you just said."

"Highway to hell. It's like, hey, I'm going to hell, but I'm going on the party elevator." Dean found himself laughing in spite of himself. "And it's like, well, might as well have a good time, be with the people you love, see them on the way, and do your best not to drag them down with you." That wiped the smile off Dean's face. He wasn't talking about the song anymore.

"You know what I mean, Dean?"

"No," Dean repeated, confused for what felt like the hundredth. "I don't, Sam."

"Well, it's like someone knowing that something's going to happen to them, they're going to die. And they don't mind that, not at all, but then it's bad if someone they love is with them and dies too. It makes the whole dying thing a lot worse."

"You're not going to die, Sam," Dean said, almost in a whisper. Sam snorted, smiling.

"What makes you think I was talking about me? I was just explaining the song." Sam gave him a 'duh' look.

"Of course, the song." Dean tried to shake it off. "I think you need to go to sleep now, Sam. It'll be alright. I'll be right here, all night." He smiled encouragingly and Sam pouted rather childishly.

Dean reached to pull down the covers, but a hand shot out around his wrist, the grip weaker than usual, but still strong. "Yes, Sam?"

Sam's eyes were back to the puppy dog look, almost childlike. Dean was remembering all those times when they were younger when Sam had woken up in the middle of the night with bad dreams.

"You're not going to die, right, Dean? Please don't die." Dean was caught off guard by the question.

"No, Sam. I'm not going to die."

"I don't want you to die." His voice was suddenly stern, and Dean was wondering if Sam was really as drunk as he had thought. "You _can't _die."

"I promise you, Sam." Sam smiled, and Dean really got to see it touch his eyes for the first time. Sam fell back against the covers and closed his eyes.

"You won't die." It wasn't a question anymore. "I won't let you." Dean's brow furrowed. "I've been...worryin' about you," Sam continued, his words slurring. "I figured, if I'm screwed, I don't want you to be too. I've been thinking 'bout it, you know? 'Bout what I could do. One morning I woke up, got under control, grabbed some money, and actually thought 'bout leaving a note and heading off. At least then you'd be safe. Just couldn't go through with it. Those stupid feelings, right, Dean? Who needs them anyay? But I realized then, that my feelings were the only thing in between me and that thing. The only thing that saved me. You and dad saved me. You guys were who I thought about that last minute before I lost control."

"You were..." Dean started, but the rest of the words stuck in his throat.

"And now I did it again," Sam said, frustated. "I hurt you. You see, this is all my--"

"Go to sleep, Sam." Sam closed his eyes again. Dean got up to leave, but Sam called his name softly, his eyes still closed.

"Don't be mad at me, Dean," he said pleadingly.

"For what?"

"For everything. For Nora. For that family. For trying to kill you. For trying to leave you." He sighed. "That..." he said, drifting off to sleep. "That was the..." he yawned "...hardest thing I've ever had to do." Dean smiled, glad Sam's eyes were closed and he wouldn't remember anything, holding back the tears. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"I..." he started, clearing his throat when his voice broke. "I know you didn't." Sam shifted, already mostly asleep, as Dean slipped his hand into his brother's. "I know."

"I won't let you die," Sam said, determined.

"Same here," Dean whispered, but Sam's hand was already slackening in his. He gave it one last squeeze and backed off. "See you in the morning."

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry guys, but I don't have time to write much today. I'm in a really big hurry but I told you that if you gave 8 revews it would be out in three days and here you go. Sorry I can't talk more. Let me know what you think of the 'big secret' and if you don't understand something let me know.**

**Please please please please please review!**


	35. Ridiculous

**Chapter 35: Ridiculous**

"Four weeks is up, Sam. Mind giving back my tapes?" Sam glared up at him.

"Good morning to you, too, Dean." He sat up and immediately regretted it. "Ow."

"Don't change the subject," Dean said lightly, and Sam motioned for him to quiet down. Dean made sure to get very close to his ear when he spoke, and made his voice loud enough to make it hurt enough. "Where. Are. My. Tapes. Sammy?" It had the desired effect. Sam cringed.

"Well, I think I'm going to add a few weeks onto the sentence."

Why?" Dean yelled, aware his voice made him sound like he was whining, but he didn't care.

"I think it had_ something_ to do with you getting me drunk."

"You got yourself drunk."

"Really? It must have been my imaginary friend handing me the drinks all night until I was singing Barney."

"Rocky Horror," Dean corrected. "Then you went into a chorus of Barbie Girl--but let's not get into that."

"Where'd the sudden good mood come from?"

"What sudden good mood?"

"Dude, you should be _pissed _after what happened last night." Dean looked like he was going to say something; his face was sad, vulnerable, but he covered it up with a cocky smile.

"You're just trying to change the subject," he teased, but his eyes weren't in it. Sam swallowed and buried his face in his pillow. He just wanted to talk to Dean about it, but, like usual, Dean preferred to hide whatever emotion he was experiencing.

"I'm not giving you your tapes yet, so give it up," he muttered, turning over, squinting in the little light he had. Dean's eyes narrowed, and he immediately got up and moved over to the window.

"You wouldn't," Sam said in a low voice.

"You have a killer hangover. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. Now tell me, Sam. Ten seconds." Dean grabbed the handle of the blinds. Sam closed his eyes, but it wouldn't help.

"You can do this all you want, but every time you do, I'm adding--oh, shit! What the fuck was that for!"

"That wasn't me," Dean claimed.

"Sorry," a voice said from the door, spotting Sam with his head buried in the pillow, shielding himself from the light streaming through the now-open door. "Feeling better, Sam?" Sam mumbled something resembling 'close the door,' but it was muffled in the fabric.

"He always has killer hangovers," Dean explained.

"What are you, interrogating him? That's what it sounded like from next door."

"It wasn't any big deal, was it, Sam?" Dean asked. Another groan as Sam pulled the covers back over his head. Dean picked up a pillow and whacked him with it. "Get up, sleepy head, we have to go. Now." Once more, a groan. Dean sighed. "I really didn't want to have to do this. Nora, get some ice from the machine down the hall. Lots of it."

"I'm up, I'm up," Sam grumbled. "Jesus Christ, it's not like it's my fault."

"_I_ didn't get you drunk," Dean defended.

"Yes, you did," Nora corrected as Sam pulled his socks on, looking groggy. Dean slapped him across the head, encouraging him to hurry up.

"No, I didn't. He can't even remember it, can you, Sam?"

"Probably for the best," Sam said with a sour smile. He started brushing his teeth, closing the door of the bathroom behind him.

"Underneath the whole pissed-off exterior, I think he's doing a lot better," Dean said, mostly to himself. It was at that point he heard the gagging sounds from the bathroom. Oh, yeah, this was going to be fun.

"On second thought," Dean added, "brushing your teeth probably won't do much good anyway." The noises continued.

"What'd he say last night?" Nora said in a low voice.

"None of your business," Dean said, trying to dodge talking to her at all, cautious with his words around Nora. If she wanted him to believe her, she was going to have to prove that she wasn't there to hurt Sam. "The normal shit he says when he's drunk."

"So he told you?"

"Yes," Dean answered simply.

"How'd you take it?"

"Look, back off, okay," Dean snapped. He was trying not to let himself think about it. If he did, it would just make it harder for him to act like the news hadn't gotten any big reaction. Sam needed support right then; Dean would only make it worse if he let himself think about it, and to let what Sam did sink in. Sam was his brother, but what he had done was horrible.

He couldn't be mad at Sam, no. That would be the worst thing he could do. It wasn't Sam's fault. He kept repeating that to himself, but still, the words Sam had said kept coming back to him.

_"And it's my fault that that kid is going to grow up to be just like me."_

Was that true? And if it was, then what could happen to the older brother?

_He looked just like you._

Would that kid turn out like Dean? Dean didn't consider that a good thing.

_Those poor kids. Both of them. The younger one has to suffer, and the older one has to watch as he breaks down before his eyes._

Knowing Dean's probable reaction if she pressed it, Nora changed the subject. "You think he'll be back to normal, then?"

Dean knew the answer to that one immediately. No. He'd never be back to normal. He'd never _been _normal. None of the Winchesters had. Still, he answered, "No way to know."

"I'll finally get to see what Sam Winchester is like when he's not possessed or emo."

"I can hear every word you're saying," the voice called through the door.

"And we really don't care," Dean responded. Sam shambled through the bathroom door, his bag slung over his shoulder. It was true, Sam did look better. Hungover, tired, grumpy, and recovering from puking his guts out, but even then he looked better than he had in weeks. Like he had taken a big weight off his chest, which, Dean guessed, he had. The previous night had been the first good night's sleep he'd had in over a month. He hadn't woken up once. Of course, he had only been asleep for five hours, but it was progress, all the same. Sam smiled slightly when he saw Nora, and she beamed back, putting on her 'I'm so innocent' face.

"Ready to go?" Dean asked, trying not to vomit himself as he saw Nora and Sam's exchange. Sam was falling for it, and Dean couldn't really blame him; he was vulnerable, he needed something to believe, and in this case, he needed to believe that Nora was good.

"What do _you_ think?" Sam asked sarcastically. Dean passed him a pair of sunglasses.

"It's noon and bright out. Prepare yourself."

"Wonderful," Sam commented sourly, putting the shades on. "Where are we headed next?"

"Colorado. Rumours of a Yeti are going around."

"I thought that Yeti were mainly snow creatures," Nora said. "You know, the whole Abominable Snowman thing."

"First rule of this job," Dean said as Sam cringed from the bright light, even though he was wearing Dean's sunglasses. Dean paused, waiting to see if he was going to make it another few minutes. "Never believe stereotypes like that. Being the skeptic will usually get you killed. Especially now that you're probably going to be doing stuff other than being the distraction."

"Really?"

"Really," Dean said. "You get to be the bait."

"What's the difference?" She asked, sounding angry as she climbed into the back seat.

"Well," Dean replied, opening the door for Sam and mockingly bowing him inside. Sam elbowed him jokingly. "There is a difference, actually. When you're the bait, there's a higher chance of getting killed." He leaned in to his side and smiled at her, sending her a hidden look behind Sam's back, before seating himself down. "When you're the distraction, you're the lowest of the low, basically. That used to be Sammy's job, here, but now you get the grunt work."

"The difference?" She prodded.

"Oh, yes, I was getting off topic. The distraction is all the crappy jobs like pulling the fire alarm or flirting with the secretary while we sneak in somewhere. Now, sometimes we're still going to need that, so unfortunately for you, that's still your job. But you've been upgraded to bait. Whenever we're trying to get a demon or ghost or something to come out, that's when we send you in to lure it out."

"Like Shaggy and Scooby," Sam finished, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed.

"Exactly, Sam."

"I thought I'd update it a bit. I remember how boring it was when you explained it to me."

"Expect an initiation," Dean informed Nora. "And if you strike back, we will downgrade you again." She looked like she was going to protest, but Dean just smiled, clearly showing her how little he trusted her with anything near their lives. She just smiled back, her features sweetening into a too-cute smile. Nobody with her history and attitude should be able to look that sweet. It freaked Dean out. There was something behind that smile. He turned to see if Sam had spotted it too, but it seemed he was asleep again. Nora already had a book out by the time Dean looked back.

"What's that, How To Hide The 666 On Your Skull For Dummies?"

"Fuck you."

"Oh, you know you'd love to."

"What are_ you_ reading, Dean?" She asked, not even looking up. "How To Function In Society With Your Head Up Your Ass For Dummies?"

"Oh, god," Sam muttered, cracking his eyes open. "Pull over the car."

Dean did so without hesitation, and unlocked the car door, but not before adding, "If you get one bit of puke on my car, I'll kill you."

Sam was a little too busy listening. Nora had lifted her book before she had to see Sam in his full hangover, projectile-vomiting glory.

Altogether, they had to stop eight times over the next six hours of driving before they gave up. Sam immediately laid down on the bed, pulling the covers up over his head.

"Brush your teeth," Dean said. "I can smell it all the way from here."

* * *

**Two Days Later**

"Dean, you're being ridiculous!" Sam said pacing across the hotel room, frustrated.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I just don't trust her."

"Why?"

"It's just--it's the way she looks at us, at you, when she thinks you're not looking. She's planning something in that tiny, cute little brunette head of hers, and it's going to come around and bite _us_ in the ass."

"You're being ridiculous," Sam repeated, shaking his head.

"I'm not!"

"She's not planning anything. She's not that type of person. I knew her before she was possessed, and she wasn't like that. She's normal. Are you pissed because she's out-smartassing you?"

"No," Dean said, getting angrier that Sam wasn't taking him seriously. "Listen to me, Sam," he said, lowering his voice, just in case she could hear through the walls, a point Sam mentioned.

"This is just getting out of--"

"Listen," Dean hissed. "We both know there are other ways to make people do things for you without possessing them."

"She's not like me," Sam defended, his temper also rising. "You know they can't do that to just--"

"I didn't mean like you," Dean said. "I mean that there are other ways. Ways that aren't supernatural. Threats. Blackmail. Bribery. People respond to that, and no matter what some people are willing to do it."

"She wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"What is your problem, Dean?"

"My problem is that I don't want you to get hurt. And just because you have a little crush on her or something, I don't want that to blind you to--"

"Since when does how I feel about her in that way have anything to do with this conversation at all?" Sam was practically yelling now, and Dean had realized, too late, that he had hit a nerve.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said, trying to cover it up.

"I don't want to hear it," Sam hissed, and the way he said it, Dean had no question what he was making a reference to. That night in the car, when that whole mess had begun. Sam angrily kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt off, and climbed into his bed, ignoring Dean's apologies and the occasional 'Sam, you're being a jackass about this.' Sam rolled over, his back facing Dean, and pulled the covers over his head.

**Author's Note: Um, since I didn't really comment on last chapter, here's one extra long Author's Note.**

**---I'm sorry that some people didn't see last chapter showing up. I don't know what happened.**

**---Yes, I realize that last chapter I used the song Highway to Hell for like, the millionth time. It's my favorite song and it fit into the story, so give me a break. I use it so much that it's pretty much this story's unofficial theme song. Well, that's not true; there are so many songs that express different aspects of the story. And since my internet is out and the only things I can access right now are Spider Solitaire, Microsoft Word, and iTunes and I'm bored, here's a playlist of songs that make me think of this story and what chapters/characters they correspond to. Yeah, I'm a nerd, and I'm bored. Oh, and I realize a lot of these are current songs, but whatever. **

**-Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace (Sam in general; his thoughts on himself) **

**-Burning Bright by Shinedown (Again, general Sam. How he feels about having to pretend like he's okay.) **

**-Crawling in the Dark by Hoobastank (Sam and Dean both about their fear of the future for them, and how they know it'll end badly.) **

**-Highway to Hell by AC/DC (Duh) **

**-If You Want Blood (You've Got It) by AC/DC (It was actually mentioned in the chapter with Dean and Sam's dream. It also relates to how Dean felt toward the demons when they first took Sam around chapter 2.) **

**-Me Against The World by Simple Plan (general) **

**-Never Too Late by Three Days Grace (Dean's feelings about how Sam's dealing with his problems.) **

**-Perfect by Simple Plan (when Sam's thinking about his relationship with John) **

**-Remedy by Seether (I dunno, I just listened to that song again and was reminded how much I love it.) **

**-Shut Up by Simple Plan (Well, I may be pushing it putting this on the list because it really corresponds to a future chapter.) **

**-Spinning Out Of Control by Hoobastank (general Sam) **

**-Through The Dark by KT Tunstall (Once again, this corresponds to a future chapter. I'll let you know when that comes up. Ditto for Shut Up.) **

**---One more thing: Since I originally set out to write my own version of season two, it will include a season finale of sorts. And trust me, as someone who loves to write cliffhangers, I'm working on a pretty good one. I'm just telling you in advance, even though it'll be at least 10 chapters until we get to that point. And I will continue into a virtual season 3, too, so no worries about it remaining unresolved.**

Until next time...


	36. My Greatest Fear

**Chapter 35: My Greatest Fear**

_-Two weeks later-_

The door busted open with a loud boom as the two Winchesters ran into the cramped room, the eldest holding a gun at the ready.

"What happened? Where did it go?" Sam said loudly, running in at top speed, surveying the room, his eyes darting quickly to the shattered window. Nora came in after him, carrying a gun of her own. She looked the exact opposite of Dean. She was shorter than him, smaller than him, and his rugged looks contrasted greatly with her soft, petite features. Where he held the gun as if it had always been attatched to his arm, she looked awkward with hers, having just been taught how to use one for real since she had been possessed.

"Oh my god..." the boy, Dylan, muttered from the floor, his head bleeding. "You were right."

"Yeah," Dean said urgently. "Where did it go?"

"What form was it in?" Sam asked. "Who was it posing as?" They needed to find out what the shapeshifter had transformed into if they had any chance whatsoever.

"What?" Dylan said. He was obviously still in some state of shock, and the three questions at once didn't help.

"What attacked you and your brother? Did it take him?"

"No," Dylan said, shaking his head. "He's not here."

"Who was it posing as?" Sam repeated. Dylan's eyes were still wide in terror. He didn't even seem to know where he was.

"What?" He said again.

"God dammit," Nora muttered, and Dean shot her a 'shut up' look. She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Who did the motherfucker that attacked you look like?"

"Nora," Dean hissed.

"What? I was going to bitch-slap him but it seemed a little mean."

"It..." Dylan said, his voice faint "...wasn't a person." Sam and Dean exchanged looks. That had to be one of the first times Sam had ever been wrong about something like this. He raised an eyebrow, as if questioning the credebility of the statement.

"What was it?" Sam asked skeptically.

"I couldn't tell what it was until it looked at me, and then it changed. It just transformed into this...this thing." He shuddered. Dean leaned down to his level.

"Where's your brother?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "James? Why would it go after him?"

"It tried to kill him once," Sam said matter of factly, like he was trying to make up for the fact that he was wrong by spitting out as many facts as humanly possible. Dean grinned ever so slightly; Sam was back, or at least bits and peices. "It's probably going to do it again. Angry spirits tend to latch on to one person, or a family, which might explain why it went after you. But I don't think we have to worry about you right now. Where's James?"

"He left an hour ago, for work. He has to go in late sometimes, after everybody else is gone," Dylan said, his voice shaking with concern.

"So he's there all alone?" Sam said, taking a deep breath. Dylan nodded, his eyes traveling to Dean's face.

"He's going to be okay, right? Right?" Dean nodded.

"Of course he's going to be alright," Dean assured him. He turned to Sam, who nodded.

"We're going to help him," Sam said comfortingly. Dylan still looked unsure. "I promise, nothing's going to happen to him."

"I'm coming with you," Dylan said, his face determined.

"You can't. You're safer here," Nora said, her voice sounding strangely comforting.

"She's right," Sam said. "This is going to be very dangerous. Life-threatening, even."

"You can come," Dean said simply, the gun in his hand ready. He turned to walk away, and Sam started to protest. Dean merely turned back, his face totally normal, and asked Dylan, "What_ was_ it in the form of, by the way?"

* * *

_-Thirty Minutes Later-_

"You've got to be kidding me!" Dean repeated into his cell phone. Sam laughed bitterly on the other end of the phone.

"Be quiet," he muttered. "He can hear you. He's already freaked out enough about his brother; there's still no sign of him. I don't need you making him worse. I'm going to take you off speaker phone."

"I mean, this has got to be the weirdest thing we have ever done."

"Oh, I don't know about that. We've done some pretty freaky shit."

"Dude, we're searching an office buiding for the homocidal freaking fabric softener teddy bear. _Who_ is afraid of that thing?"

"We don't know necessarily that it feeds off people's fears."

"Really," Dean said sarcastically. "What else could it be?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "But I don't understand the Snuggles thing, either. I mean, I understand wanting to beat the living shit out of it..."

"Why, Sam," Dean said, making his voice sound appalled. "Who do you think you are, me? You're getting a little smartassy there."

"I trained with the best," Sam added, the smile apparent. Dean knew from his tone that he wasn't totally back to normal, but at least he wasn't on the verge of a mental breakdown anymore. The dead look was fading slowly, but surely.

"I'm so proud of you," Dean said mockingly as he rounded a corner, running into Nora headfirst.

"Fuck," she said, nearly knocked off her feet. Dean remained standing. "Let me know next time you're going to pull some shit like that, okay?"

"Hold on, Sam," Dean said into the phone. Adressing Nora, he asked, "Did you find it?"

"What? The demon teddy bear? No sign of it. Did Sammy find anything?" Sam didn't bother correcting her on the name, though he had heard her perfectly.

"A whole shit-load of nothing," he responded. Dean motioned for Nora to follow him.

"Well, there's nothing down here, either." He pressed the 'up' button on the elevator's controls. "So we'll check out the next two levels. Nora can take four, I'll take five. If it's not there, we'll start over. But we're going to find this son of a bitch."

The doors slid open as Dean flipped his cell phone closed, trying to avoid acknowledging Nora's prescence at all. She seemed to find that particlarly amusing for some reason. She snorted once, but followed him into the cramped elevator. It was yellow-colored inside, smelling slightly of cheap cologne. Annoyingly happy music played over the tiny speakers in the corner.

Dean leaned against the hand-rail as the doors closed, and Nora stood opposite him. He avoided eye contact, and she just smiled sweetly at him, as if to say "Is there something wrong, Dean?" He unconsciously wished for the elevator to move faster.

Instead, he got the opposite.

The elevator shuddered violently, and Nora was thrown across to Dean. Her body, however tiny, also hurt when it was slammed against Dean's. The lights flickered and then went out. The elevator stopped altogether.

"What the..." Nora said, pushing herself off of Dean. "What just happened?" Dean didn't get a chance to answer, as his cell phone rang.

"What?" He said, irritated.

"Are you alright?" A concerned voice asked from the other end.

"Yeah," Dean assured him. "You?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked. "Did you turn the power off?"

"_I_ didn't," Sam said. "It must have just been a power outage. The electricity's out everywhere."

"Where are you?"

"First floor. Don't worry, Dylan's with me. He's freaking out a little, but he's okay. Where are you guys?"

"We're in the elevator. Is there any way you can get us out?"

Sam sighed. "Not until the power comes back on. Sorry. You'll have to just stay there for awhile."

Dean blew a breath out, reaching into his bag for the flashlight. Suddenly, it hit him. "Wait, you mean I'm stuck in an elevator for god knows how long with _Nora_?"

* * *

Sam audibly swallowed, knowing Dean's reaction. "Yes," he said. Then, trying to change the subject, for the sound of Dean hitting the wall was painfully loud, he added, "Look, I'll finish this job up. Just try to stay sane for me. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and Sam could tell the sound of Dean's gritted teeth.

"Good," Sam said, letting out an inner breath of relief.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do?"

Sam rolled his eyes, pacing in the dark. "Yeah, Dean, just give me a second to use my psychic mind tricks to magically move the elevator. I could barely do that when I was possessed." Dylan shot him a 'what the hell?' look. "Don't ask."

"Sam," Dean complained, "I'm going to kill her, I swear."

"Do your best not to," Sam said, bored.

"Sam--" Dean repeated, but Sam cut off his protest. He snapped the phone shut and slipped it in his pocket, grasping for his flashlight.

"James!" Dylan called, scared. Sam took off running in the direction of the voice. "James, is that you?"

"Dylan!" Sam yelled, winding his way through the hallways, trying to decide which door to go through. He opened the third door down, the one that read "James Sanford" that they had checked in earlier. Except there was one difference in it since the last time they had been there.

There was someone in there. Or rather _something_. Whatever it was, it must have been small. The flashlight just barely caught the light of the white fur. Two black eyes glinted in the darkness. Sam didn't get a chance to see it better, as the second it saw Sam, it began to transform.

Sam took out his gun, preparing himself, ready for the second it was finished transforming into his greatest fear to shoot it in the heart. He had no idea what it would be when it was done; he hadn't given any real thought to his greatest fear, but he didn't care. He was going to finish this, no matter what. He needed to finish this hunt to prove to himself that he was able to do something useful rather than just sitting around being depressed.

The creature had twisted itself into a human form, and Sam turned the flashlight on it.

"Holy shit..." Dylan whispered. Holy shit was right. Sam thought his response was very appropriate, considerng the situation. He was too shocked to speak himself.

For standing there was something creepier than Snuggle the fabric softener teddy bear, creepier than any killer clown would ever be to Sam. This was something that scared him every time he thought about, the thing that kept him up late nights, trying so hard not to scream.

Standing merely feet away from Sam, his pitch black eyes glinting in the dark, a smirk on his face, was Sam Winchester.

"Hey," he said.

**Author's Note: Sorry if this chapter sucked, I personally hated it, but it really was to set up for next chapter and I wrote it in a hurry. In my opinion this is one of the worst chapters of the story and the one that pissed me off the most to write.**

**I'm also sorry that this took longer than usual to get out. I realize that I missed my usual deadline by pretty long. I was up really late each night this week doing homework. This is one of those times where all of my teachers are piling it on at the same time. It's just been crazy. I was up until one o'clock two nights in a row doing a project on FREAKING MEDIEVAL JAPAN!**

**I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but it WILL be up. I am not abandoning this story, not by far. It's still a LONG way until the end. When I told my friend (BloodyMaryBloodyMaryBloodyMary, who is working on getting the next chapter of hers typed up. I'm her beta-reader, and she's my best friend, so check her story, Bullets, out) all the things I had planned out, she was like "Holy crap, this is gonna be one long story, isn't it?" And I hadn't even told her the entire thing. ****It's one long and crazy ride, let me tell you that.**

**Up Next: As Sam confronts his greatest fear--himself--Dean and Nora start to work out their problems in a very touching scene that ends with a big hug. ****Um...NOT!! There is some talking, but not much of it is happy sweet stuff.**

**Until Next Time...**


	37. Love In An Elevator

**Chapter 37: Love In An Elevator**

**Author's Note: The title of the chapter is named after an Areosmith song, and I thought it fit pretty well.**

"So...this is awkward," Nora commented, and Dean just glared. He shifted slightly from his position on the floor. He sat opposite Nora, his hands resting on his knees. Nora sat against the parallel wall, her legs crossed, extended out in front of her lazily, her toe tapping to an unknown beat as she discreetly mouthed the words. She blew a strand of hair out of her face once Dean shot her a contemptuous look, rolling her eyes before stopping her tapping.

They sat in silence for a long time, glancing over when they thought the other wasn't looking.

"So..." Nora started again, her voice breaking through the awkward silence. "You and Sam are brothers..." It was probably the lamest thing she could have said under the circumstances. Dean looked over at her, an eyebrow up, and shook his head at the absurdity if the comment. Nora held her hands up in mock-surrender. "I was just trying to break the ice." Dean hit his head against the wall, closing his eyes in frustration.

_Why me? _Dean thought. _Really, what have I done to deserve this?_

"Here I am," Dean said to himself, rolling his eyes. "Stuck in an elevator with the spawn of Satan herself."

"I like sarcastic guys, you know," Nora said, smiling.

"I wasn't being sarcastic," Dean replied. "I really do believe you are the spawn of Satan."

"They say chivalry is dead. You're just here to prove them wrong, aren't you?" Dean shot her the middle finger. "When you run out of smartass comments, always go for the backup plan of shooting someone the bird. Classy, Dean."

"That's what I'm here for," Dean replied with a sour smile. Nora rolled her eyes, and the occupants of the cramped elevator fell into silence once more. Dean was worried about Sam. Terrified, as a matter of fact. His hand itched to pick up the phone and call Sam, but he wasn't going to let Nora see the crack in his facade. He tried to think of a loophole of some sorts, an excuse he could use.

It turned out he didn't have to. Nora beat him to the punch with her own awkward conversation-starter.

"I'm not really a bitch, you know." Dean glanced up briefly from the spot on the floor he had his vision focused on.

"Well, someone get this girl an Oscar," he said, his voice over-dramatic in a mocking way. Nora just continued, pretending she hadn't heard him.

"And I don't think you hate me as much as you'd like to believe."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Really?"

_"Really."_

"Let me put it this way," Dean said, leaning forward as he pulled out his gun. "If I was stuck in this elevator with you and two werewolves and this gun here," he waved the gun, "had two silver bullets in it, I'd shoot you...twice."

"And that's before I even piss you off," Nora said, her voice not giving away a trace of fear.

"If you ever piss me off, I'll let the werewolves maul you a little, too."

"You haven't killed me yet, have you?" she said matter-of-factly. Dean held the gun up once more.

"Sam has the one with the bullets."

"I'm pretty sure you could kill me without that."

"You're right," Dean said smugly. "I could."

"But you haven't."

"No," Dean said. "Not that I don't want to..."

"You really don't hate me that much," Nora said cooly. Dean hated when she did that; no matter what he would say to her, she would just sit there and take it. He wasn't sure to be pissed at her or admire her for it.

"Of course I don't," Dean retorted, layering the sarcasm on. "I'm just hiding the fact that I'm madly in love with you. Let's get down and dirty, right here in this elevator." Nora smiled.

"Alright," she said, calling his bluff. "Let's go." She broke into a sarcastic smile.

"_Please_," Dean said. "I'd rather make out with Sam than with you."

"Thanks for that mental picture, Dean."

"You wish."

"Think about it," Nora said. "What does that say about you?"

"I don't know what that says about _me_, but judging by your reaction, you're pretty turned-on right now, aren't you?" He cocked an eyebrow. Nora laughed, her eyes sparkling in the darkness.

"That's a good one," she said, flashing her crooked smile at him. She sighed and leaned back against the wall. "So why _do_ you hate me so much?"

Dean cocked his head to the side. "You have to ask?"

"Yes," Nora said, her eyes narrowed.

Dean took a deep breath, swallowed, and fidgeted for a second, thinking about his answer. He was thinking about simply saying "Because you're a bitch," but he knew he could think of something better than that. It wasn't simply because she annoyed him, or because she constantly tried to remind him what a bad brother he was, or because she held details of what was going on with Sam over his head. And he might have been going against every rule he had set for himself by admitting what he did, but he didn't care what Nora thought of him.

"You're going to hurt him," he said quietly, causing Nora to purse her lips in confusion. She motioned with her hand for Dean to elaborate. "I see the way you look at him. I'm not stupid."

"I like him, Dean. I like him a lot," Nora said, still uncomprehending.

"I didn't mean in that way," Dean replied, his voice biting. "I know why you're here. You're here because they told you to, aren't you?" If Nora was acting, she was doing a damn good job of it. Her jaw slackened a bit in surprise, her eyes widening.

"You _still _think that's why I'm here?" she asked incredulously.

"If the shoe fits," Dean said, not backing down in the slightest. Nora, smiling a tiny bit as if she knew something he didn't, leaned forward, looking up at Dean through her lashes. Dean had to admit, she looked pretty hot.

"Dean," she said quietly, still grinning secretly. "Don't you think that if I was with them, I could have had him already? You of all people should know what I'm capable of." Her eyes twinkled mischeiviously, looking damn-near evil in the intense shadows. "If I was one of them, can you think of one good reason I would wait this long and give him more time to recover?" Dean glared right back at her, his jaw set.

"Because he's not recovering. He's not getting better, and you know it." Nora leaned back again.

"It's not something you get over easily."

"Like you would know what he went through," Dean spat, his voice raising. He started to shout, all of his anger pouring out in one sentence. "You have no idea what they did to him!"

"I never said--," Nora started to say.

"You have_ no idea_ what they put him through---"

"And neither do you!" Nora yelled over his voice. The remark effectively shut Dean up. Nora was officially pissed off, her eyes narrowed, her hands clenched at her sides. "Don't act like you understand what Sam went through. You weren't there, were you?"

"Shut up," Dean hissed.

"You weren't there when they did that to him--"

"Stop!"

"You weren't there when he killed that woman!"

"I said _shut up_!" The rage was boiling inside of him, ready to spill over.

"You weren't there when he destroyed my life and when they destroyed _his _for a second fucking time, when they ripped away what little humanity he had left!"

Dean shut up.

"And you," she said more quietly, but still furiously, now that she had Dean's attention, "weren't there when he tried to destroy his own life. And don't act like you understand what he's going through. Have you ever had a single moment where you weren't sure who you were, where you were, and if anybody was going to save you from what you knew people were going to do to you, and know that any second you could lose what made you you?"

Dean didn't respond. He was frozen, listening to her speech.

"Then you don't understand," she said simply, her brow furrowed furiously. "And don't," Nora continued, getting up onto her knees so she could lean closer to Dean across the small space between them, "act like you understand me or what I went through. And don't judge me because of what someone else did to me, because of what _Sam_ did to me." Dean's stomach clenched, and he had to almost physically hold himself back from lunging at her. Nora's eyes were cold, dark, but with something that looked like despair somewhere deep down. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, sadder. "I lost everything that night. Everything. Because of your brother." Her bottom lip twitched a little, and Dean wondered what she was thinking. She glared for a second, her face about a foot away from Dean's. He didn't move, waiting for her to either snap and attack him or start crying.

Instead, though, she smiled humorlessly, and continued in a half-laughing voice. "But you know what, Dean?" she said, backing up a bit. "I don't blame him. I don't blame Sam for what he did that night. Do you know why?" She paused briefly, as if waiting for a response. "Because I'm a fucking good person, that's why. You can call me whatever you want, you can believe whatever you want about me, but that's not going to change.

"And just because I have my own ways of dealing with things, doesn't mean that I'm up to anything. You don't see me accusing you of stabbing him in the back just because _you_ can't talk about your feelings. There's no problem with the way we handle things; people just don't understand it. We don't even understand each other, and we're in the same boat."

Dean averted his eyes; her gaze was penetrating as she waited for the reaction to her mini-speech. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"Have you ever had a sibling?" Dean asked quietly.

"A sister," she responded, but her voice was cold. Dean continued.

"Have you ever had something bad happen to her?" Nora sucked in a breath, smiling humorlessly.

"I don't know," Nora said, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against the wall. "I left home when I was pretty young. I never really got a chance to know her. So no, you could say I really don't know if something bad ever happened to her." She swallowed and smiled weakly.

"If..." Dean started, his voice lower than usual. "If you had a sibling, you'd understand. You'd see what happens when you spend that much time with someone, when you'd do anything for that person. When you'd die for that person." He knew he was pushing his chick-flick moments quota, and brought it to a close. "I'd die for him, and he knows it. I just never thought..." he took a deep breath. "I never expected him to return the favor." He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat down. He smiled, covering up for it. "And if you had a sibling, you'd see that."

Nora blinked, looking thoughtful, then smiled slightly, but it didn't totally reach her eyes. "I think I already do," she said quietly.

The lights flickered back on.

* * *

**Hi everybody! I'm sorry it took so long to update. I told you it would, but I promised that it would come out eventually and it did. It's just been hard and I had to rewrite all three of these chapters (the last one, this one, and the next one).**

**Also, I know I said this chapter would include something with Sam, but if I included that then it would be a few more days and I figured it would be better to release the chapter earlier without the Sam part than make you wait a few more days to find out what happened. So next chapter will pick up with what happened to Sam during the time Dean and Nora were in the elevator.**

**Oh, and as a side note, this was what Eric Kripke said about the ratings of Supernatural:**

**TVGuide: Are you happy with how your show is doing, considering that you are up against a lot of big shows?  
Kripke: Um... I'm happy, but I wish I was happier. We're hanging in there, and that's a testament to the fans. Under extreme competition _Grey's_ _Anatomy_ and _CSI_, we're sticking in there with comparative numbers to what we had last year. And that's in a much more brutal time slot and on a new network with not nearly the level of marketing that we had last year. All things considered, we're doing well. For the show to be the six-/seven-year player that I want it to be, we need to do better. We need to say to the fans and to the converted, "Spread the word." People catch on by word-of-mouth, so the best thing I could ask from the fans, as a personal favor to me, is to tell people about it.**

**You heard what he said! We need to spread the word!**

**Oh, one more thing that has no relation to the story whatsoever, but whatever. Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance comes out Tuesday, and I am so excited it's not even funny. I have been going crazy all week. (My friends think I'm insane, and they're big fans too.) I have tickets to see them when they come to Tampa for the Next Big Thing 6 concert and once more, I'm so excited all I can do is scream. My personal favorite song on the album so far is Teenagers. It's already on my list of favorite songs EVER. It also fits into a later chapter of this story (which is a flashback to when they were...guess...here it comes...teenagers!...gasp, never would have guessed that, would you?) that I'm in the planning stages right now where the song is my inspiration for the chapter. The same thing goes for Famous Last Words a little bit. (I can't tell you where it fits in, though, because that would give too much away.)** **Wow, this note actually does have some relation to the story.**

**Oh, and my friend Sam (BloodyMaryBloodyMaryBloodyMary) is finally reading my story. Wow, after helping me with certain parts and giving me advice (she helped me with the beginning part of this chapter) she's actually started reading it from the beginning. Let's all give her a hand -claps-. Yeah, and she updated her chapter nine without letting me edit it. (shame, Sam, shame) :) She knows how I'm obsessive about the editing crap (weird, huh? I'm even editing my author's notes.) and how it bugs me if I can't do it, but I don't hold it against her, and she did let me do chapter eight.**

**Anyway, I think that's enough pointless ranting.**

**P.S. School SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**Until next time... **


	38. Fascinating

**Chapter 38: Fascinating**

**Author's Note: If you guys can come up with a better chapter title, I'm open to ideas. I can't think of anything,**

"Holy shit," Dylan repeated once more, and Sam had to admit that it was getting annoying. The other version of himself just smiled at Dylan's horror, not moving his gaze from Sam's own stricken gaze.

"It's a surpirise, isn't it?" the creature said. "I was not expecting it for sure. I think I like this form, although that little teddy bear was pretty amusing." He chuckled. "But you," he continued. "You, Sam, are_ fascinating_. Utterly fascinating."

"I'm not an exhibit at a museum," Sam retorted.

"All the same, it will be a shame to kill you," the other Sam said, shrugging as he pulled out a knife he had stored on the desk in front of him. Sam stood protectively in front of Dylan, though he knew the man wouldn't be the first target.

"What did you do to my brother?" Dylan spat angrily, finally snapping out of his shock. For the first time, the other Sam looked to Dylan, as if a fly had just flown in front of his eyes while he was trying to do something very important.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," the other Sam said with a smirk. Sam stared at him for a second, analyzing his facial expressions. There was something going on, something clicking in the back of his mind.

"Your brother," Sam said uncertainly, "is on the third floor." Somehow he knew he was right. Something was opening his mind, and one minute the information wasn't there, the next minute it was. The other Sam looked at him, shocked. Apparently by gaining Sam's possessed appearance he did not also get the special abilities associated with it. "He's unconscious in the men's bathroom. The third stall from the door. He's not dead, but he's bleeding pretty badly."

"How'd you--"

"I don't know, but go." The other Sam was so shocked he didn't seem to care that one of his victims was about to get away.

"But you'll--" Dylan argued.

"Get to your brother," Sam said forcefully. "I'll take care of this." Dylan hesitantly moved to the door, and then broke out into a run.

"Well," the other Sam said, moving closer to Sam. "You're just _full _of surprises, aren't you?"

* * *

"Come on, Sam," Dean said, frustrated as he flipped his phone closed. "Can you pick up your god damned phone for once in your life?" He kicked the wall, pausing for only a second before breaking out into a run as he heard Nora calling his name. 

"Dean!" she yelled again, coming around the corner.

"He's not answering his phone," Dean said, his voice panicked.

"That's bad?" Dean nodded. Nora took a deep breath, and then said, "Alright, we just keep searching. We already know what floor he's on, so it shouldn't be that hard."

* * *

"Shit," Sam hissed as he made contact with the wall, his breath knocked out of him. Trying to regain his breath, he steadied his legs unnderneath him. His ribs were burning, and he couldn't help but notice he was getting his ass kicked. 

By himself. How was that for irony?

The other Sam advanced on him and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt, his black eyes peircing. Sam hated those eyes more than anything in the world, and on his face he only then realized how terrifying it looked. He didn't look _human _with them. Well, technically he wasn't human during those times anyway. The black eyes were just showing it.

"Can't you do better than that?" the other Sam sneered, in a perfect imitation of how Sam's tone had sounded like when he had been like that. Sam kicked him swiftly in the side and flipped him. The other Sam recovered very fast and threw Sam across the desk. He slammed hard into it, his head colliding with something hard that nearly sent him out of the world of consciousness. His gun lay in the corner, having been knocked out of his hand early in the fight. The other Sam pulled Sam by his colar and shoved him into something else, and though Sam couldn't see what it was, the fact that there was blood running down his forehead from his scalp and the shattered glass lying around him, he had a pretty good idea.

Shaking his head through the dizziness that had engulfed him, he kicked out, missing his intended target of the other Sam's hand, which held the knife Sam had hoped he hadn't had time to pick up. Instead, he hit the other Sam's jaw, which was a pretty damn good second to the knife, and reached out for the blade. His vision doubled and he stumbled a bit, but he managed to get his hand around the handle and turn it around, knocking the other Sam against the desk, the knife to his throat.

The other Sam gritted his teeth. "You really hate yourself that much?" Sam took a deep breath and straightened up, yanking the other Sam with him, the blade still at his neck drawing a line of blood that was trickling down to his white shirt. Careful not to give him a way to escape, Sam leaned down and grabbed the gun.

He pushed the other Sam away from him, sending him crashing into the shelves. He leveled the gun, staying the trembling in his fingers and blinking through the throbbing in his head.

"Yes, I do," he said cooly, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Sam!" Dean screamed when he heard the gun go off. He ran as fast as his legs would allow, Nora attempting but failing horribly to keep up due to her short legs. 

Another shot rang through the air, and another, and another.

The door slammed open as Dean entered, totally unprepared for what he was about to see. The first thing he saw was someone hunched on the floor. Someone with shaggy brown hair.

"Sam!" he yelled again, and the man looked up. It was Sam alright, but his black eyes threw Dean off. Nevertheless, he ran to his brother, who seemed to not have gained any serious injuries. Whoever had hurt him had either been a bad shot or incredibly nervous. He didn't even care that another shot might go off, even though it didn't; all he cared about was making sure Sammy was alive and healthy.

"Dean, stop!" A voice commanded, and the eldest Winchester froze in his tracks.

That was Sam's voice.

He backtracked, looked over and saw Sam, his hair soaked in blood, though the cut it was seeping from looked rather shallow, his eyes a normal brown.

"Holy shit," Dean said, looking back and forth between the two, neither of which moved. Nora chose that moment to break the tension, running in at top speed, skidding to a stop while holding her side and gasping for air. Her eyes widened at the sight in front of her.

"Holy shit," she gasped.

"That's what I said," Dean muttered. The Sam on the floor looked up at Dean, his eyes now back to a normal brown. "Sam--" He started forward, but before he could get very far another shot rang out. The Sam on the floor leaped to the side just in time, and began to transform. Its form was changing, becoming smaller, fur covering its body.

"No fucking way," Dean hissed as the miniature figure straightened out. It merely giggled in response. Dean glanced at Nora, whose mouth was agape in a mixture of shock, disgust, and amusement.

It started to move, its form apparently to throw them off, but Sam was too quick for that. Another shot rang through the room, and Snuggles fell backward, a gaping hole in its chest.

The room was silent. Nobody moved. Dean still had the image of his brother on the floor bleeding seared into his brain, even though it hadn't really been Sam. But the part that scared Dean the most was that it had to mean that Sam's greatest fear was...himself? And he had managed to shoot himself--multiple times--without even hesitating? It certainly shed some light on certain things, things that Dean probably didn't want to see but needed to. Sam's face was impassive, his eyes blank, as he stared at the spot where the Snuggle bear had been, and there was no way to tell what he was thinking.

It was Nora who finally broke the silence with, "Dude." Sam jumped, as if he hadn't known anyone else was in the room. "You blew Snuggles to the shithouse." She smiled. It was all Sam needed to hear; a grin spread across his face, tired and relieved at the same time. That was when Dean realized, he didn't need someone asking him if he was okay, or what the hell he had just done. He needed someone to act normal, to make it seem like nothing bad had happened.

Maybe Nora was better than Dean gave her credit for.

* * *

**Author's Note: I know, not the best or that longest chapter I've ever done, but I tried. I'm sick, and having trouble concentrating, and still managed to finish this and update. School has been sooooo hectic lately, but I think I'll be hitting a calmer spot soon. We've been doing this whole "don't do drugs/don't bring guns to school/don't get into gangs" thing, and all of the teachers are showing videos and stuff and haven't been able to give much homework.**

**Guys, PLEASE review! Is anybody still reading this, anyway? Am I losing people's interest? Is it starting to suck? If it is, at least tell me what I can do to improve. I will get the next chapter up sooner or later, and if I get 10 or more reviews I can make that sooner. (5 days TOPS)**

**I promise things are going to get REALLY interesting REALLY soon.**

**Up Next: Dean tries to decide whether or not to take a leap of faith with Nora, while Sam makes a decision of his own that throws Dean off guard. (I know, sucky summary, but whatever.)**

**Oh, and next chapter may seem more "transition-y" (yes, I know that's not a word, but I just made it up) but after that there should be very few of those type of chapters.**

**Until next time...**


	39. Getting Back Up

**Chapter 39: Getting Back Up**

"Where were you?" Dean asked Sam, not looking up from the hotel television. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam lay down a box on the table.

"I went over to say hi to Nora and got pizza," Sam answered simply, the tone of his voice anxious. Dean simply shrugged in response.

"I love this show," Dean commented from where he sat on his bed, his legs extended out in front of him.

"Very educational, Dean," Sam threw back sarcastically. "It's nice to know you're expanding your horizons."

"Hey," Dean said defensively, "South Park discusses some serious issues through well-thought-out comedy." Sam raised an eyebrow, glancing quickly at the screen.

_"Excuse me, can we get back to the issue please? You all don't seem to understand how serious this is. Now who made dookie in the urinal?"_ one of the characters said.

"Alright," Dean defended, "but at least it's not the crap you watch, Mr. So You Think You Can Dance."

"Go Travis," Sam answered indifferently. "Jess liked it. I guess it just kind of became a habit."

"Ok..."

"Whatever," Sam said. He flipped open the top of the pizza box on the table. "Get off your ass. I know you're starving."

"You're no fun anymore, you know that?" Dean said in what was meant to be a mocking tone, but from Sam's facial expression he could tell he had said the wrong thing. Sam just stared down at the table he was standing next to, biting his lip in a frustrated way.

"Yeah," he muttered, barely audible. He leaned on the table for a second, his head hanging forward, took a deep breath, and then pushed himself off, his head snapping up. Sam's eyes focused on a spot past Dean's left shoulder for a second, as if he had to take a few seconds before making eye contact. He shook his head. "I know."

"I didn't mean--" Dean said. "It was just a joke."

"I know," Sam said, still looking like he was trying very hard to get something out. "But, um, I do want to talk about that."

"We don't have to talk," Dean said quickly, afraid that maybe he had forced Sam into this.

"Yes we do," Sam said, still not meeting his brother's eyes. "Because it's wrong for me to do this. It's wrong for me to put you through this."

"You're not--"

"I know how I've been acting, Dean. Don't you think I know? I've been walking around like a living corpse for the past month and a half, and you were there for me the entire time. I don't know how you did it." Sam shook his head, drawing in a breath past his gritted teeth. "I don't know how I could just sit there and not do anything, but you have to understand. I didn't know." Sam bit his lip and looked at the ceiling, as if he could draw some conclusion from it, as if he were reading off a teleprompter. But Dean knew he wasn't; Sam would have to be the best actor in the world to act that speechless. His brow furrowed, and for the first time in weeks Dean could see the naked truth in Sam's eyes as his brother grudgingly met Dean's gaze. Sam was in pain, more than Dean had realized. Sam was scared, scared of himself and for himself. "I didn't know," Sam repeated, his eyes sincere, his voice trembling. Now it was Dean's turn to look away.

"Dean," Sam continued, his voice rushed, as if he had to get it out as quickly as possible before he lost his nerve. "I'm so sorry. You have to know that. I just...it was all too much at once. First waking up in the hospital and realizing that I was finally free, then having dad leave, and then everybody asking me if I was okay time after time, and then the nightmares, and feeling like you were just waiting to see when I was going to crack. It was just too much for me to handle. I couldn't take it, all these feelings, all this coming back. Being around _people_ again, being around you didn't feel normal, and I hated myself for that. It hurt, becasue it was like they had dulled everything, pulled a blindfold over my eyes. Everythying was so clear but I never realized what was wrong." Dean finally looked up into his brother's eyes, getting the feeling that Sam was either about to cry, which he couldn't handle at this point, or hit something really hard. "I couldn't feel anything anymore. And when I came back, it was horrible. I could feel everything again. In that car, it was too much. I felt everything. I was sad, happy, angry, all at once. It was wonderful...and horrible. The blindfold had just been on so long that it hurt to look at the light. It was like ripping the bandaid off something and realizing that you had just started the bleeding over again, and made it even worse. I wanted it to end, I wanted it go away so badly. It hurt too much. And then..." Sam smiled and let out a tiny laugh, shaking his head in a disbelieving way.

"And then," Sam started again, "you started crying. And that was just it for me. I--"

"Hold on," Dean said, his voice raising, but not because he was angry. If anything, it was panic. "You said...you told me that you couldn't remember any of that. Did you suddenly wake up one morning--"

"Dean," Sam said, cutting him off, with a look on his face that clearly said 'you mean you haven't figured it out yet?' "I lied to you. I remember every single word you said."

"You lied? Why?"

"Let's think about this for a second," Sam said. "Let's take a minute to picture how that conversation would have gone." He raised an eyebrow. "At least you got to keep up your reputation, right?" Dean glared at him, and Sam immediately knew he had said the wrong thing. "I shouldn't have--"

"No, you shouldn't have."

"That's another thing I wanted to apologize for."

"Look, Sam," Dean said, holding his hand up in the universal sign to stop. "Let's not talk about that night, okay? The night you left for college, we all said things we shouldn't have, and I really don't want to get into the whole blame game thing." Sam nodded soberly, and Dean tentatively brought the subject back into focus. "What do you mean by 'That was it for me'?" Sam thought for a second, trying to put his thoughts into words.

"It's complicated, and my brain was still pretty muddled, but it was in that second that..." his eyes flickered to Dean's face and then back to the floor "...I really realized what it was going to do to you if I died. That you wouldn't just blink and then go on with your life as you'd have liked me to believe. And it hurt...finally feeling something, feeling any sort of familiarity to my old life again...but I didn't care." Sam smiled weakly, rolling his eyes at his own melodramatic speech.

"That still doesn't leave you with anything to be sorry for," Dean said.

"Yeah, it does," Sam said. "When I came back, I treated you like dirt. I yelled at you, I ignored you, I never said a word unless you asked me something. And as it's hard to explain why I acted the way I did, even though I already told you most of it. After being someone else so long, I couldn't _be_ myself anymore. That's the way they designed it. If you get out, there's a price. There always is. I didn't know how to be me anymore. I had..." he swallowed, his voice becoming weaker. "They made me forget what it was to be..." he shook his head "...human. I found myself angry for no reason, sad for no reason, happy for no reason. And even though I tried so hard to cover up how much worse it hurt each time you asked me to explain something or talk about my feelings because I knew I couldn't control my emotions, you still knew something was wrong, didn't you?" Dean nodded warily. "It was killing me. I had missed my old life, I had wanted it back, but nothing felt the same anymore. I couldn't take it, and after that first job back it just got worse. Everything was in such sharp focus, and every thought I had, every feeling I had was too strong.

"I had to make a choice between the pain or nothing at all. Numbness. And I chose the wrong route. I blocked you out. I blocked the world out. I blocked out everything that caused me pain, and I regret every second of it." Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, looked up at Dean, who still hadn't moved, and smiled. It was a real smile this time, the first one he had seen in awhile. Sam's eyes were really in it.

Sam looked at the floor for a split second, and then back up at Dean.

"Not anymore," Sam said. "Not anymore. I fell down a long ways, Dean. I think it's time I got back up."

* * *

"What did you say to him?" Dean demanded. Nora looked slightly surprised; she had opened the door barely a second ago for the oldest Winchester. 

"What?" she said, not comprehending.

"What. Did. You. Say. To. Him?" Dean clarified.

"Nothing," Nora said defensively.

"Well," Dean said, not changing his voice from the brisque tone he had first used, "whatever you said, thank you." If Nora had looked taken aback before, it was nothing compared to now. Her jaw was fully open.

"What alien crawled up your ass and took control of your mind, Dean?" Dean didn't answer. He turned and began walking away, but at the last second, his hand on the door of his own hotel room, he turned.

"Oh, by the way," he added as an afterthought. "I still don't trust you. I'd say about three more years and you'll be almost there, though." With that, he opened the door grinned out of the corner of his mouth at Nora, and shut the door.

* * *

**Author's Note: Hi, guys! I can't really think of anything to say, really. Um...review, please. I know the alerts are down and school is hard sometimes, and I get that, I totally do. Trust me, it really, really sucks. Just if you could find a little time to write a sentence or two that would be great. What did you think? Am I getting character voices right or am I a little off? Are the characters too one dimensional? Is the story still interesting, or do you think it's getting boring? What would YOU like to see happen (I do take answers to questions like these into consideration a lot)? What do you think is up next for the Winchesters? What do you think of Nora? Evil or not? (Right now, it's all opinion, there's an equal chance of both.)**

**Up Next: Unexpected visitors arrive and set their sights on Sam, and lead Dean to wonder whether his assumptions about Nora were correct. Either way, one wrong move could mean Sam's fall back into the darkness he has vowed not to let claim him. (bum bum BUM. Yeah, totally melodramatic, but whatever, isn't the whole story kind of melodramatic?)**

**By the way, the South Park line was to the episode in the tenth season called 'The Mystery of the Urinal Deuce.' Yeah, Dean just struck me as a South Park type of guy, kind of like my brother. We had a conversation similar to that once.**

**And the allusion to the night Sam left for college will come into play in the form of a flashback. It's something I've been wondering about for awhile. I know we have been told what happened between John and Sam, but not Sam and Dean, and it was really something I wanted to explore. In the show it was kind of implied that Dean was all supportive and stuff, but the line in this chapter about them all saying things they shouldn't have kind of gives away the gist of what's going to happen. They always just talked about what happened with John and Sam because they really didn't want to bring up what they both said to each other.**

**Oh, and next chapter ends on something I'm not sure counts as a cliffhanger. It might, I'm just not quite sure. OK, maybe it's a _tiny _little one...**

**Until next time...**


	40. Always Difficult

**Chapter 40: Always Difficult**

_-Three weeks later-_

Sam actually seemed to get better after that, to Dean's infinite relief. He talked again, smiled again, and laughed again. It seemed like he had finally begun to heal after his experience. He was also more focused on his job, almost like the old days, except for an occasional outburst, which he controlled easily. The 'parasite' didn't seem to be the boss of him anymore.

Things were looking up for Sam, it seemed to Dean, except for one thing.

Nora.

Dean still knew there was something wrong with her, even though he had grown to not dislike her as much as he used to. She looked at Dean differently when Sam wasn't around, like she knew something about him that Dean didn't know she knew. If that made any sense.

Well, it wasn't like many things Dean thought made sense in the first place.

Still, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to give her the chance, to maybe believe that she wasn't there to hurt Sam, he just couldn't do it. He never would be able to accept anyone or anything that had anything to do with the demon and what he had done to Sam.

Sam himself had stubbornly refused to believe that Nora could do anything more evil than steal the remote. Dean knew Sam wasn't doing it because he felt like he owed her something anymore. Dean wasn't stupid; he could see how they were always talking, laughing, smiling with each other.

Sam was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. Dean couldn't really blame him; he was vulnerable, he needed something to believe, and in this case, he needed to believe that Nora was good. But every minute Sam spent alone with her put him in danger, put both of them in danger.

And as much as Dean hated it, he had to keep Nora around. He would lose Sam if he did anything to keep Nora away. He didn't want Sam to hate him, but he was constantly arguing with himself. Was Nora really that big of a threat? Was she such a big threat that it would be worth Sam hating him forever to get rid of her? Would he regret his decision, whatever it was, later?

To the last question: most likely. To the rest: no fucking idea.

"To our first successful hunt," Dean said, raising his beer mug in slight celebration. Sam smiled and raised his as well. Nora nodded from beside Sam. "Sam, you didn't mess anything up. I, of course, was wonderful, as usual." Sam snorted. Dean elbowed him playfully.

"And Nora," Sam added, "pulled the fire alarm with a speed that took me until I was in third grade to learn." She grinned. Dean made a gagging noise into his beer, but Sam just continued, ignoring him. "Of course, I could barely reach the fire alarm."

"And now you're Paul freaking Bunion," Dean finished for him. Sam and Nora laughed at the light atmosphere.

"Well," Nora said, getting up. "Since this was my first successful job, I'm kind of tired. You guys stay here. I think I'll just go back to my room and go to sleep."

"Okay," Sam said, still facing forward as she walked away.

"Good job, Sammy," Dean said once the door had clicked shut. Sam looked up, locking eyes with his brother. His eyes still didn't have the normal warmth to them, but it was obvious that he was trying. They didn't look dead, but the guilty, haunted look was still there. He still had big problems.

There was one more thing. Sam hadn't been sleeping in the past few days. He kept getting up screaming and would leave the room, not coming back for hours, just like the 'old days'. The bags under his eyes were becoming more pronounced again.

"Thanks, Dean," he replied.

They sat in silence for a second, not really needing to say anything. When Dean prepared to order another round, Sam stopped him, saying he had had enough for one night.

"You never know what personal secrets I might let slip this time," Sam commented, seemingly in a good mood. These days, Dean's stomach turned over every time Sam even smiled. He was so happy that Sam seemed to finally have gotten over it.

"Oh, come on," Dean urged. "There aren't any karaoke bars around this time, I promise."

"You'll find another way," Sam said, shrugging his jacket on.

"Yeah," Dean admitted with a laugh. "I probably will."

Sam patted him on the back. "Exactly. Don't have too much fun, Dean." Giving Dean one last smile, he headed outside.

Once he was out of the room, Dean was free to let the smile wipe off his face, letting his fear take over. What had that smile Nora had given him meant?

_You're obsessed, Dean, _the little voice inside his head said. _You're obsessed with proving that there's something wrong with her when maybe there isn't. What if she just doesn't like you?_

_No, _the other voice in Dean's head argued, _I could deal with her just not liking me. This is different._

_Evil?_

_I know I should trust her after all that shit in the elevator and how she helped Sam, but I don't want Sam to get hurt. I don't want to take that chance, not when he's so close to the edge._

_Do you realize you're trying to convince a voice inside your head something that the other voice in your head believes?_

_Shit. I **am **going insane. Nora has driven me to insanity._

He cut off both of the voices immediately, and focused on the look Nora had given him as she had turned and looked at him on the way out. This had been different than the other ones. More threatening somehow.

There had been fear in there, and some sort of cockiness. Like she was throwing something in his face. It might have been because, technically, she had Sam exactly where she wanted him. But how did that explain the fear?

Suddenly it clicked.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

Sam strolled down the chilly block, taking a shortcut through an alleyway. It was dark out and cold, but he found he didn't care. In his profession, a few shadows meant nothing. 

Another successful job. It felt good to be back, but he realized that it had taken him way too long. Dean shouldn't have had to put up with him like that for as long as he did. He didn't deserve that.

He let the wind hit his face, stopping to close his eyes for a brief second. In the past few months, everything had been blurred. He hadn't felt anything for awhile really.

In that brief second, his breath was stifled as some form of cloth was thrown over his head and he was yanked back to collide with someone's body.

"Got him," a gruff voice stated.

* * *

Where was Sam? 

That was the only question Dean could ask himself. The question his mind revolved around.

"Sam!" He yelled.

The only thing that responded was an echo of his own voice.

* * *

"Sam!" A voice yelled. Struggling for breath through the bag that was suffocating him, he tried to respond. 

"Dean," he tried to call back, but the man holding him pulled rougher, making it hard for Sam to breathe even more, let alone talk. It came out merely a weak rush of air.

"That was easy," the man remarked softly.

"Yeah," another voice, female, deep, responded. "I think you've lost your edge since you left us, Sammy."

"Whoa," the man said, trying not to yell out as Sam kicked viciously. In response, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, and he saw stars. But still, he didn't stop fighting as his hands were drawn behind his back, a rope being wound around his wrists. He tried to pull away, but a second pair of hands forced him to his knees, making it even harder to move. With a sharp jerk the material was tightened so hard that the blood flow was cut off. He was stuck. There was no way he was fighting his way out of this. There was another option, though.

The man, who Sam now recognized from his time in captivity, Chris, had to loosen his grip on the bindings on Sam's head to tie his wrists, and he took the opportinity to yell out his brother's name at the top of his lungs in the off chance that Dean could hear him. He probably couldn't.

He was suddenly slammed against a wall, his back making contact with a thud. He tried to stifle the panic, planning ways out of the situation.

"It doesn't have to be this way," the girl that he recognized as Rachel, another one of the simply possessed population. Another blow from Chris to his stomach had him doubled over. "It doesn't have to be painful, like last time. You don't have to suffer like that if you don't want to."

"Thanks," he spat through gritted teeth. He kneed Chris and pulled away. "But I'm afraid I'll have to take a raincheck on that." Hoping he got lucky, he kicked out, managing to clip Rachel on the chin. He was now free of the man's grasp, but also blind and disarmed.

What had his father taught him? He was drawing a blank. The only thing that he could remember was what he had learned back from his time in captivity. Either use his powers or simply fight like hell.

Great. A lot of good that did him.

_Shit. Shit shit shit, _he thought as he ducked out of the girl, Rachel's, way. Her footsteps were painfully obvious. Chris' weren't.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Chris said in his ear Sam fought, but Chris had overpowered him. "Dean's coming with us this time."

That stopped Sam. "What?" he gasped out in shock, his voice coming out in a mumble.

"That's right," the girl, Rachel, said. "You're going to cooperate this time."

Sam lashed out. He wasn't just fighting for himself anymore. He was fighting for his and his brother's lives now. He kicked Chris in the shins, squirmed free of his grasp, and tried to determine where Rachel was.

She hit him head on, her knee going to his stomach. Having winded him, she pulled him back by his jacket.

_

* * *

_

_"Come on, Sammy," John encouraged a thirteen-year-old Sam. "What did I tell you?"_

_Dean, now seventeen and much bigger than Sam, argued with his father, "We've done this enough, dad. Give him a break."_

_"Dean," John said, his voice stern. He looked up at his oldest son, who immediately shut up. He turned back to Sam. "Remember," he told Sam. "If you are ever in a situation like this, what do you do?"_

_Sam rolled his eyes. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to practice stupid fighting techniques with his dad and brother. John knew that Sam had never beaten Dean; it was impossible. Dean was at least six inches taller than him. He didn't stand a chance normally, but with his hands tied behind his back, blindfolded? This was ridiculous._

_"What do you do?" His father repeated the words more forcefully this time._

_"Make sure your enemies are down, then get your sight back. You can always live without the use of your arms if you know what to do."_

_"Do you remember the moves I taught you?"_

_"Yes," Sam said in a bored voice, trying to remember when his Geometry test was while attempting to look like he was at least half-listening._

_"What was that?" John said._

_"Yes, sir," Sam clarified._

_"Alright," John said, satisfied. "Let's try this again." Dean gave Sam a sympathetic look. He nodded once as he came up to Sam, John looking the other direction. It was their simple sign. Dean would take it easy on Sam this time. He pulled the blindfold over Sam's eyes, the ropes already in place on his hands. He patted Sam once on the shoulder, then backed up. Already, Sam knew it was a lost cause. He couldn't even hear Dean's footsteps._

_Then his brother struck. He kicked out with his foot, knocking Sam off balance. Sam crouched low to avoid the next blow he could feel flying his direction. He kicked out blindly. It successfully made Dean stumble, but didn't knock him down. Dean hauled Sam to his feet by his jacket._

* * *

He twisted his body, sending Rachel face first into the pavement. He spent the next two seconds or so centering himself, forcing his mind to concentrate on the senses that would be more useful. 

Chris was coming up behind him. He snapped around and elbowed him in the face.

* * *

_Dean fell back from the blow. Sam hadn't hit him hard enough to break anything, but enough to knock him out for a few seconds._

_Sam moved forward. This was his chance to finally_ _beat Dean for the first time. For the first time, he could be better than Dean. His father's voice stopped him, though._

_"Come on, Sam," he called. "Free your vision first. It's good to have that safety." Sam hesitated a bit, but eventually shook his head violently, throwing the blindfold away, beginning on his wrists._

* * *

No luck. The knots were too tight. He needed a knife, and by the look Chris was giving him, he needed one soon. He allowed himself to curse every profanity he knew; he was getting pretty good at it. 

"You were always difficult," Chris commented. "I remember when you were yourself, there at the end. You were one of the best fighters I've ever met. I was amazed. You had real potential, you were a natural. But this? This is pathetic."

"I _am_ myself," Sam spat. If he could keep Chris talking long enough

Once more he came up short. If he had just been fighting Chris, he might have had a chance.

"You were a good guy," Rachel commented. "But to get him back, I apologize in advance for this."

* * *

_Dean kicked out, but Sam lunged to the side, still working on the ropes. It was a complicated knot, like he knew it would be. His father was always challenging him. _

_"Sammy, I really don't want to do this all night," John said. Sam tried to ignore him. If paid attention, then he would just get angry, mess up, and have to keep working all night. He had promised to call Tom to see about Friday night, he had two minutes before Tom's curfew, and he had to finish his project that was due the next day still._

_"Focus," Dean mouthed, out of view of John. Sam nodded, and Dean sprung. He went head-on, hoping to pin Sam.__ Sam kicked up at his brother, hitting him in the chin, sending him flying backwards onto his ass._

* * *

Sam managed to dodge the first punch Rachel sent out after recovering, but before he knew what was happening, he was grabbed from the back by Chris. He elbowed the man, hit his head with Chris's, and threw Chris to the ground. 

Rachel was next, throwing him to the wall. Winded, he yelled his brother's name again, afraid that maybe there would be some other people after him.

"Dean!" He yelled. "Be careful!" His cries were cut off very suddenly.

* * *

_Dean threw Sam into the wall of the side of the hotel. He pushed him there, pinning him._

_This wasn't over. Sam kneed Dean in the stomach and pushed him off with one old, dirty sneaker. He advanced on his brother, but Dean kicked his legs out from underneath him. There was about twenty seconds of mostly one-sided wrestling. Sam couldn't really do much with his hands behind his back. The entire thing ended with Sam pinned, face down on the ground._

_"I'm sorry," Dean whispered. Sam understood; if John knew Dean had taken it easy on Sam, then Dean would be in trouble too._

_"Let's try this again," John said casually. Sam cursed under his breath. "What was that, Sammy?"_

_"Nothing," Sam said grugingly. "Sir," he added in his most mocking tone.

* * *

_

Sam was pinned to the ground, on his back, by Chris. "Don't you remember, Sam?" Chris said, his eyes wild with incomprehension. "You're not this. You're one of _us_." Rachel kneeled over, preparing something in her bag.

"No," Sam insisted. "I'm not."

"You were happy," Chris insisted. "You belonged. We know how you felt before. You're accepted among us. You joined us for a reason."

"I didn't join anything," Sam hissed angrily. "Don't act like you give a shit about me, or ever did. I remember just fine. I remember what you and all the rest of you did to me perfectly. You never hesitated, you never thought about the fact that I was a human being. I was a weapon, and you had to do what you had to do to get control of me." Chris merely shrugged.

"What we did to you only upsets you because you let it. Pain is an inconvenience. Fear is an inconvenience." He shook his head. "You're afraid, aren't you?" Sam looked away as Chris scrutinized his face. "I never thought..." Chris said, his voice baffled. "I never would have picked you for a coward. You were a warrior. One of the best. Possibly _the_ best. Even your hotshot brother had trouble beating you." Sam glared up at the man who now pinned his shoulders. Yes, he was afraid. He was terrified, his blood rushing through his veins as his pulse sped up exponentially by the second. His stomach clenched when he saw Rachel straighten up. She pulled something out of her bag, and Sam immediately knew what it was. The thing that would start him down the road he had stumbled down so long ago.

"I know this won't do much good," she stated, "since you've built up a sort of immunity to it, but it'll knock quite a bit of the fight out of you and start up the process nicely."

As hard as Sam struggled, Chris wouldn't let up, and he couldn't move. He felt the needle break the skin on his neck, hitting the artery.

This was it. It wouldn't really do anything at first, but it was a start.

He couldn't let this happen. For Dean. He couldn't.

"No!" He yelled, not expecting anything to happen. But, for some reason, Rachel went flying at top speed into the brick wall, falling to the ground, unconscious.

Sam couldn't be totally relieved, though. Chris was perfectly willing to finish the job. He grabbed the syringe, preparing to inject it, piercing it into Sam's skin. He felt the liquid enter his bloodstream, and before even a third had been drained, Sam's head was already starting to spin, his thoughts jumbled. But Chris never got farther than that. Sam heard the sound that, at that moment, both comforted and terrified him, all at once. Someone was cocking a gun.

"Take your god damned hands off of him or I will spray your fucking brains all over the sidewalk."

Dean. His voice gave off a furious tone that he rarely used, saving it for the times when it was needed the most.

"There are more where I come from," Chris said, not moving, except for the slight pressure on the syringe as he tried to inject more. Dean caught him.

"I said step away from him, you _son of a bitch_," Dean said in a deadly calm voice, his tone leaving no room for arguement. The needle was pulled from Sam's skin, the pressure released from his chest. He was exhausted, and found that the only thing he could do was turn to his side and concentrate on his breathing, trusting Dean utterly as his mind spun from the effects of the drug meant to turn him into a monster. It was only a small dose of what he had been given in the past, but enough. "Now get the hell out of here," Dean continued, "and don't come back. We'll be ready for you just in case you do return, and I won't be as generous next time, I swear. If you ever lay a finger on him again, I will make you wish I had simply shot you right between the eyes. Got it?" Dean's voice was icy, leaving no doubt that he would follow through.

Chris threw a glance at Sam, who saw his face through the foggy haze that seemed to be blocking his sight. Something in his face was satisfied, and he smiled slightly at the helpless youngest Winchester.

"He will never be--" Chris started, turning towards Dean, but not seeing the boot headed straight toward his face. Blood spattered on the concrete as he clutched his nose, now bleeded profusely, falling to the side away from Sam. Throwing one last glare at Dean, he moved to Rachel, gathering her unconscious form in his arms.

"You have no idea what's coming--" he started.

"I said leave!" Dean snarled, keeping the gun trained on Chris until he was sure he was gone. Even then, he kept the gun ready as he ran to Sam, turning him over. "Sam?" He asked, his angry facade gone, his voice quavering. "Sammy?" he whispered.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam muttered, barely audible, as Dean took out a pocketknife to cut Sam's bindings.

"Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" Sam tried to shake his head, but altough his strength was returning, he just couldn't manage through the new pain throbbing in his temples. Dean picked up the needle, and something else Sam couldn't see with his blurred vision. "What's this?" Once more, Sam tried to respond, but his body just felt too heavy. In the pit of his stomach he knew something was wrong. His head lolled to the side, his eyes feeling dead in his sockets.

"Sam!" A concerned voice called, but Sam couldn't recognize it anymore. "Sam, what's wrong? What did they do to you?"

This wasn't anything they had done to him. He knew the effects of the drug they had injected him with. This shouldn't be happening, not yet, not with that small of a dose. His vision shouldn't be going white. Did that mean he was dying? Had there been something else in that drug? Had that been what they were there for after all? To kill him?

_Plan B,_ he reminded himself.

No, he wasn't dying. He could feel his body still, could feel Dean basically carrying him back to the car. He could feel it when Dean laid him down gently in the backseat, careful not to jostle him any more than necessary, could see, if only in brief glances, the looks of shock Dean was throwing at him.

Right around the time they pulled into the hotel, Sam's vision blanked out in a flash of white. Dean was yelling his name but he couldn't respond as the vision started.

**Author's Note: Once more, not sure if that counts as a cliffhanger or not. This is one of the longer chapters I've done in awhile, so yay.**

**Um...what did I want to say? Oh, yeah! Remember how I said Highway to Hell was kind of the theme song for this story? Well, I may have another one. It's not classic rock, but it's a great song and it really fits the story and kind of the feel of this, because at the core I'm really not trying to depress people with this story, I'm not. So, anyway, the song is called Famous Last Words. I'm not sure if anybody's heard it before; it's really new. It's off of the new My Chemical Romance album The Black Parade. The first verse applies to Dean in my opinion, the second to Sam, and the chorus to both really. It is one of my favorite songs of all time, and I think it's really sweet.**

**Up Next: Sam has a startling vision that throws everything as they know it into chaos and brings them all closer to the edge. Dean reaches a breaking point with Nora that may be correct and save both his and Sam's lives, or may turn out to be a misunderstanding that is fatal to an innocent person.**

**Sorry if I gave you guys the impression that the Nora thing would be in this chapter. But I promise next chapter there will be the major conflict between the two, and Dean gets really pissed off at her. Only, what if he goes too far and realizes that she was really never going to betray them at all? And that's a 'what if'. (-innocent smile-)**

**Oh, and in case you didn't pick up on it, the girl in the chapter way back with Harry and Ed that was talking to the demon was Rachel, not Nora. That doesn't mean there's not the possibility of Nora being one of them, it's just that it wasn't her getting the assignment from the demon.**

**Any theories? Drop them in your review. Remember, it only takes a few seconds, and I'm open to suggestions. What would _you_ like to see? Where do _you _want the story to go?**

**Until next time...**


	41. Calm Down

**Chapter 41: Calm Down**

**Author's Note: This first part is Sam's vision. Just letting you know, in case you didn't get it from last chapter, he's having a vision. The reason he can't do anything is that he's technically not there. He's watching it as a spectator. He doesn't really have a body, he's just kind of there, watching from the sidelines.**

Sam was in the middle of freaking nowhere. Everywhere he turned, trees, trees, trees.

Wait. This wasn't the same dream as usual, was it? It was too vivid.

Oh, shit. This wasn't a dream. This was a vision. And not a good one, he was guessing.

It was too dark to see anything, but he could get the general gist of it. His subconscious was drawn to the sound of what seemed like an arguement, though he couldn't hear an words until he got closer. Someone was yelling, screaming as he was dragged through the woods. The voice sounded familiar, though he couldn't place it. Was it his voice? That's what it sounded like, but he couldn't be sure.

"Dean!" The voice yelled. "No, you can't! Please, no!"

"Sam," a new voice said. Female, it sounded like. Meg? Yes, that was it. "Have you ever had something that you really didn't want to do but knew you had to? That's my dilemma. But I have to do this. I'm sorry."

"Please," Dean's voice said. "Don't."

_They're going to kill him! Dean! No! This can't be happening._

There was more sounds of a struggling, someone being dragged.

"You're lucky," the female voice, Meg's, said. "I'm not making him watch." Future Sam cried out and struggled more as he was being dragged away. There was something wrong, though, something was different, the voice changing wildly in pitch out of desperation. And since Sam was only a spectator, he could merely watch, or in the case of the darkness, watch the vague outlines of movement. It was enough, though. Sam knew exactly what was going on.

They were going to kill his brother.

The voice from deep in the woods, Sam in the future's voice, yelled out again in desperation. The other voice, Dean's, remained silent in response. There seemed to be a quiet conversation between Meg and him going on, mostly one-sided on Meg. Dean whispered something, almost to himself. The slight silhouette of Meg backed up, raising the gun. Someone was muddling Dean's form, holding him in place. He was struggling in vain.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Meg said loudly to the voice that was still yelling out in the distance. "I really didn't want to have to do this, but we can't have anyone standing in our way." She cocked the gun.

"I'm sorry," she said, softer, to Dean. "I really liked you, too."

Sam tried to scream, but because he was in a vision, he had no body, no way for the panic to be released. He would have thrown up right there if he could, would have closed his eyes, would have run away, would have done something, but there was no escape.

He couldn't scream. He couldn't fight. He was forced to listen to not one, not two, but three gunshots, and was forced to listen to the bullets hitting its mark.

The last thing he heard was a voice screaming "NO!" at the top of his lungs.

* * *

He was back in his own body, now suddenly able to scream again. And he used that ability to its fullest. 

"NO!" He yelled, shooting straight up in the bed. Judging by the surroundings, it had only been about ten minutes since the vision had started.

His stomach was churning, his mind whirling from a mix of shock and the after-effects of the drug.

_It was a vision. Visions don't always come true. You can change this, _he told himself.

But somehow he couldn't stop himself screaming. He kept breathing, but his body was still looking for some way of escape, some way to vent the all-consuming panic.

He leaned down, setting his head down on his knees, letting the blood rush to his head. He could still feel the drug rushing through his veins, an almost burning sensation. He told himself to breath, in and out through the mouth, trying to push the nausea down. He slowly brought his head up, feeling a little bit better until he caught his reflection in the mirror.

"NO!" He scremed in shock once more. His eyes were black, getting darker by the second.

_Calm down. If you don't, you're screwed._

It didn't help when he heard the door slam open, someone running at top speed across the room.

"Sam," the voice yelled. "Are you alright?"

Just the sound of Dean's voice brought back the memories. His stomach clenched and he gagged, feeling the bile in the back of his throat.

"Sam," the voice yelled, terrified, from the doorway, seeing Sam on the floor, doubled over, trying not to throw up, gasping phrases like, "this can't be happening," and "not now, not him."

"Sammy," Dean said on the floor next to him. "Calm down." This couldn't be happening. Dean couldn't die. He had nothing to live for if Dean died.

"No," he gasped, feeling Dean kneeling in front of him, checking to make sure he wasn't hurt. "This can't--no, no, no. You--this isn't--we're not safe."

"Calm down," Dean repeated. "You're not making any sense. You're going to hyperventilate. _Calm down_."

"Dean," Sam gasped out. "You don't--this can't--" Dean forcefully moved Sam's face toward's Dean's, so that Sam had to look at him.

"I'm _right here_. I'm fine. We're safe; I salted the doors. If there are any more of them, they're not getting in any time soon." Sam's breaths calmed down, his heart rate still a little uneven. A quick glance at himself told Sam that he was back to normal. Well, if you could count what he was _normal_.

"What happened? The same dream? I heard you from outside. That and what happened twenty minutes ago--I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?"

"I had a..." he debated whether or not to tell Dean. "I had a vision, Dean." He immediately had his full attention.

"What of?" Sam looked him in the eyes. "That bad?"

"That bad," Sam whispered.

* * *

"And then there were some shots, I screamed 'no', and that was it. The end." Dean sat in silence, taking all the information in. 

"It doesn't mean anything," Sam said. "I got to you before. I'll do it again. At least I'll see it coming. Just stay away from forests." Dean nodded numbly. "But we have to get out of here now. Just in case." Sam turned around, dropped to his knees, and grabbed his bag. Dean still didn't move.

"How long?" Dean asked in a dead voice from behind him.

"I don't know," Sam answered honestly, fastening up the laptop.

"Who..." Dean cleared his throat. "Who kills me?"

"Nobody's going to kill you."

"Who's going to _try_ to kill me?"

"From what I could tell, Meg."

"You sure?"

"Dean," Sam said over his shoulder. "Don't go into that."

"No, it's not because--"

"Because I don't want to hear it, Dean. Just because she was possessed doesn't mean that she's instinctively evil. People can change, you know?"

"Sam, calm down," Dean urged as Sam tried three times unsuccesfully to zip his bag up. He got it halfway the third time, but couldn't get it any farther. He hit the floor in frustration, his heart rate accelerating again. Dean finished it for him, and gently guided him back to the edge of the bed, where he sat and buried his head in his hands. "It's alright," Dean said. "Nothing's going to happen."

"You're right," Sam said through his hands. "Nothing's going to happen. Nothing's going to happen to you." He was trying to convince himself more than Dean.

With an uncomfortable glance, Dean got up and went into the bathroom, a glass in his hand. Sam focused on his individual heartbeats, willing them to come rhythmically once more.

"Here," Dean said, handing him a now-filled glass of water. Sam fumbled a bit at first, but finally got a solid grip on the glass. He made no move to move to drink it as Dean sat opposite him. He was pretty sure anything that went down his throat would come back up within a matter of seconds. Dean just kept staring at him epectantly, waiting for him to say something.

"What?" Sam finally choked out when Dean's gaze became too much. Dean looked him up and down again.

"You're not sleeping anymore," Dean said. It wasn't a question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said.

"You were doing fine until a few days ago. You've been having the dream again, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam repeated.

"No, right, I should have phrased it differently: you've been afraid to go back to sleep but you won't tell me."

"I'm fine, Dean, I'm getting better."

"You're right. You have been getting better. Until four nights ago. You woke up, went over to the table, and started typing on the computer. You didn't stop until I 'woke up'. The next night you didn't even go to sleep. You tossed and turned for about an hour, got up, and left. The same thing the next night, except you started screaming." Sam's face went white. "Are you having more nightmares? Visions?" Sam swallowed, and raised the glass to his lips, hoping the water would clear his throat. He gagged a bit at first, but swallowed again, ignoring the contractions of his stomach.

"I don't know what they are," Sam replied, shaking his head to get rid of the last bits of drowsiness brought on by the drug. "They could be dreams, they could be visions, I just don't know. They feel more like nightmares, though."

"What happens in them?"

"I don't know," Sam said, taking another sip of water as he stood up. He was too tired to sit down; he would fall asleep. He needed sleep, but it wasn't an option. He couldn't have a dreamless sleep without being knocked out or drugged, and he liked neither. "It's a bunch of crazy shit, and it's usually too dark or jumbled. Mainly it's the same vision I had today, except all of the factors never really added up. I thought at first it was _me_, but now I realized...it was...whoa..." Sam fell to his side, the world suddenly tilting. His legs felt like they had turned to jelly, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He sank to his knees, using the bed for support. Dean looked unaffected.

"What..." Sam said. "Why am I...what's wrong?"

"Well," Dean said, "it might have something to do with the fact that I drugged your drink."

"What?" Sam cried, shocked. "But...why? Why would you..." His body was going slack, his limbs heavy, as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly, seeming to genuinely mean it. "You need sleep, and I knew I couldn't get you to any other way."

"You could've...just..." But suddenly his eyelids became too heavy, his lips unable to move. The last thing he heard before his world went black was his brother's voice apolpgizing, his arms gently wrapping around his torso, pulling him to the bed.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

* * *

Dean pulled the covers carefully over his sleeping brother's form, double checking to make sure he was alright, just in case. He felt bad about doing what he had done, but not that bad. Sam needed to sleep, and this had been the only way. 

But he was sorry for another reason as well. He looked down at the piece of paper he had found on the ground after Chris had left. It was Sam, smiling, almost laughing at some joke. He was looking away from the camera, as if he didn't even know the picture had been taken, which he probably hadn't. He was in a group of people, one of which was playfully punching him of the shoulder. It seemed like they were celebrating something, and Sam was the center of it all. Sam's name was written on the back of the photo, along with a reminder to bring him back alive if possible, along with the one with him. Dean.

The demon had almost gotten what he had sent them for, but he must have had a plan for if they had failed.

He had a pretty good idea who was Plan B.

* * *

Nora opened her door on the third knock, wearing jeans and her undershirt. 

"Yes?" she said, her voice apprehensive. Dean's finger looped around the trigger of the gun he held behind his back. He was going to find out the truth about this bitch.

"We need to talk," Dean said coldly. Still looking a little unsettled, Nora stood aside for him to come in. Once he had passed through the door frame, she glanced nervously around before closing it.

"So what is this..." she started, but froze when she turned around. "Dean, put the gun down." Dean just shook his head, not lowering his aim.

"I'll put the gun down when you tell me why you did this," he snarled. Nora took an involuntary step back from his angry features.

"What are you talking about?" Nora said, obviously trying her hardest to stay calm. Her pulse was racing, and she kept darting nervous glances towards the gun.

"They know where we are," Dean stated, his voice rising.

"What?" Nora breathed, her face going white.

"Don't play innocent on me," Dean spat.

"Dean," Nora started, her voice shaky, "I thought I had already told you, I'm not with them. I'm not possessed, you tested it, what more do you want?"

"I want them to stop hunting my brother!"

"Well, I can't really do much about that, can I?"

"Bullshit."

"I thought we had an understanding. I thought you trusted me enough---"

"Yeah, and there was also a phase in my life where I ate dirt. I got over that one pretty fast, too." Nora took another step back, realizing she had hit the wall.

"Dean, you're really scaring me right now." It was true; that much was painfully obvious. Her breathing was rushed, her face was white as a sheet, and she was shaking from head to toe.

"What did you do?" Dean asked.

"I didn't do _anything_," Nora responded, shaking her head violently.

"Do you know what they'll do to him?" Dean asked, his voice raising. "Do you realize what you've done? That you might have ruined his life. Hell, you might have actually ended it!"

"Dean, I swear to you--"

"Shut up for five minutes of your life!" Dean yelled. "You know what you did. You've just doomed him to weeks, months, years, trapped inside his own body. He won't know who he is, or who I am. He'll try to kill me, and I know him. He'll never forgive himself for that." Nora flinched, biting her lip.

"Stop," she said, her voice cracking as the tears welled up in her eyes.

"But you know what's worse?" Dean continued. "The fact that he already tried to kill himself once. He'll do it again. I know he will. And I'm going to be the one there that has to watch him fall apart, and not be able to do anything. They're trying to bring me along, too, you know. But I guess you knew that already."

"Dean, you have to trust me, I didn't--" She cut herself off, her frantic breathing making her as winded as if she had run a long-distance race.

"Yes," Dean said. "You did."

"Please," Nora begged. "Don't kill me. I didn't do anything."

Dean walked up to her, less than two feet away, and snarled in her face, "Tell. Me. The truth."

"I **am** telling you the truth," Nora insisted, now quite near hyperventilation.

"Tell me the truth!" Dean roared, cocking the gun, and that was it. Nora's face crumpled and she slid down the wall, her breathing out of control as her body heaved with dry sobs.

"I am!" she choked back, burying her face in her hands. "I am..." she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper. Dean didn't move; one second of letting his guard down could be deadly to him. So instead, he sat there and let her get it out of her system.

"Do you want..." she started, her voice a hoarse mumble. She cleared her throat, lifting her tearstained face so she could look directly at Dean. "Do you want to know the truth?"

"Yes," Dean said. "I thought that was _painfully _obvious."

"I did come here for you. Both of you." She bit her lip against a new onslaught of tears. "What was I supposed to do, Dean? It was my only way out. They said they'd let me go. I tried to run away, but I've always had crappy luck. I ran into you guys, and I didn't have much of a choice anyway. You offered to take me in, I needed somewhere to stay. So I tagged along." She took a deep breath, but it didn't stop a brand new set of sobs from wracking her body.

Nora locked eyes with Dean, who tried to remain as impassive as possible. "I've never killed anyone before. And I don't want to. I don't want to ruin your lives. I'm sorry."

"So you sent those guys in the alley?" Nora looked puzzled, and shook her head.

"What guys in the alley?" Her eyes widened. "Oh, my god. Sam. Is Sam okay? Is he safe?"

"He's fine," Dean said, still keeping the gun trained on her.

"Where is he?"

"Like I'm going to tell you." Nora seemed to have forgotten the gun as she ran a hand through her hair, muttering to herself absentmindedly. Her eyes darted around the room.

"They must have tracked me," she said, going to the window and pulling the curtains back. "I thought they wouldn't but there'll be more coming. They know where you and Sam are."

"No shit, Sherlock. Thanks to you."

"I said I was sorry," she insisted. "Don't you think we have bigger issues at hand. Didn't you see? There are bound to be more of them, bigger and stronger than those two. We have to go. Where's Sam? We have to get him---"

"Wait," Dean said sharply as her hand touched the doorknob. She halfway turned. "I never told you there were two of them."

"Of course there were," she said, still out of breath and trying to regain her composure. "They always send them in pairs. That's how Sam and I know each other, how we met."

"No it's not," Dean corrected. "Sam told me thet you two met in a bar before you were possessed."

"After I was possessed, that's how we got to know each other," she clarified. "What's up with all these questions? We have bigger problems at hand. We could all die if we wait this long. Sam could die."

"Sam's not going to die, I'm not going to die. There aren't any more coming, are there? It's just you. You told them where we were. You tried to turn Sam back, and you'll try again. Then when the time is right you'll stab him in the back. You'll take him back there. I can't let you do that."

Nora looked genuinely terrified. "Dean..." she said, trying to make her voice as calming as possible. "Let's just talk about this, okay? I didn't do anything. I'm not going to do anything. I couldn't hurt either of you, I swear." Her hands were shaking, her teeth gritted as if hoping she could hold back the panic.

"If you're one of them, if you're here to hurt my family, what am I supposed to do?"

"What if I'm not? What if I'm not going to hurt you?" Her voice was shaky, changing wildly in pitches. "How could you live with yourself knowing you had killed an innocent person?"

"You're not innocent."

"Okay, maybe I'm not innocent. There are very few people in this world who qualify as that. Come on, Dean. I wouldn't shoot _you_ in this position. Please," she said. "I don't want to die. Sam'll never forgive you."

"Oh, so now you're stooping to that?"

"I'm scared. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

In the next room, Sam had still not stirred from his preemptive slumber. For the first time, he actually looked peaceful.

He didn't stir when the first shots rang out.

**Author's Note:**

**Um...so, this week has been really crappy to me, and it's only Tuesday. My ipod got stolen from my purse at school, and from there it's been a downward spiral. Three of my friends have been majorly grounded, I've been sick almost all week, and I had an entire scene planned out in my head for this story in Math, but I couldn't write it down because if I had there would be about a 95 chance my teacher would catch me and read it out loud. And just consider how embarassing that would be.**

**People, please review. I only write this story for my love of the show and writing. I do not get paid for this, and I get no benefit except for the critiques of my readers. And people, all I ask for is one or two sentences. Sure, a few more would be GREAT, but I'm grateful for whatever you can give. So please just take a little time if you can manage to send me your feedback.**

**Up Next: Not everything is as it seems when relationships are pushed to their farthest, and everyone has to question who they can trust.**

**Yes, Nora is not dead, and no, Dean has not totally snapped. There is a perfectly good explanation for the part you didn't see. And yes, there is a twist, but I bet very, very few of you will see it coming. Don't you just LOVE cliffhangers?**

**Until next time...**


	42. Taking Sides

**Don't Chapter 42: Taking Sides**

Sam blinked at the morning light as he woke up. A quick glance at the clock told him he had slept at least eight hours.

Eight hours?

For the first time in months, he had actually managed to sleep through the night. He almost wasn't mad at Dean for drugging him. No sign of him, Sam observed. Sam assumed that he was out getting something, nothing to panic about.

There was a knock at the door.

_See, Sam, _he told himself. _Nothing to worry about._

He swung his legs over the side and got the door. But it wasn't who he had expected.

"Sam," Nora said, breathless.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, his voice rough as he stretched.

"Dean tried to kill me. I didn't know where else to go." Sam froze. It was then that he noticed Nora's stance. She was pale, trembling from head to foot, and covered in dirt.

"What happened?" Sam urged, ushering her inside. "Why did he try to kill you?"

"I don't know," Nora said, her voice shaking as she collapsed to the bed. She ran her hand through her hair, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Sam just shook his head, willing it to clear. This was too much for his brain to process this soon after waking up. The entire scene ruined his first good sleep in weeks.

"He said something about how I was...how I was a traitor. How they were..." she took a deep breath, trying to smother the panic. "They were coming for us, and that I was the one that was going to betray you."

"This just keeps getting better, doesn't it?" Sam said. "Are you sure he was trying to kill you?"

"When someone shoots a gun at you, I think that's a pretty safe assumption." She buried her face in her hands, breathing shakily. "I just ran. I didn't think. When the first shot fired, it missed me, and I just ran for the door. I kept running, and I think I lost him in town somewhere. I looped around and came back here, hoping that you'd be able to help me. I forgot your cell phone number."

"Alright," Sam said, formulating a plan. "I'll...just...you just stay here. I'm going after him." He pulled his jacket on and spun to the door. A quick glance at the table told him that Dean had the Colt. "Shit," he muttered.

"Sam," Nora called. He turned around. "Don't go. Please. He'll kill you."

"No," Sam insisted. "He won't. I didn't kill _him_, did I?"

"I think he's possessed. I saw one of them in the square. They got to him. I saw them touch his shoulder. That makes him about five-hundred times more dangerous than when he tried to kill me. Being possessed...it's different. _You_ at least can control it if you're lucky. Dean can't."

"He's not going to do anything."

"He'll find you," she insisted, "and they'll bring you back. You know what they'll do to you then."

"I don't have a choice, Nora. He's my brother, I can't just leave him. I know how to do an exorscism. I can help him."

"Just stay here. Please. He'll probably come back here anyway. If he doesn't, then you can go look for him. But at least we're safe here." Sam paused for a second, recognizing the sheer terror on Nora's face, and then blew out a breath.

"Twenty minutes," Sam said, taking Dean's place temporarily, giving out orders, his voice even resembling his brother's.

Nora nodded weakly, and they both sat in silence for a few moments, letting the waves of panic wash over them. Nora broke the silence first. "He's always hated me. He was always convinced that I was...I was one of them."

"I told him," Sam said. "It's alright. I know Dean."

"You don't understand," she said, her voice anguished. "They said they woulld give me my freedom if I found you and brought you back, and if I didn't then they would hunt me down and bring me back with you. But Sam..." her bottom lip quivered. "I can't do it. I can't kill anybody. I can't do that. I told Dean and he flipped out. It was a different person that was in that room. I've never been more scared in my entire life." Her breathing was fast, and she closed her eyes, looking as if she believed that if she could just wake herself up it would all be over. She said in a faint voice, "I don't know what to do, Sam," and unexpectedly threw her arms around him, a sob escaping. Sam returned the gesture awkwardly, comforting her.

"It's not that bad," he said. "We've all been through worse."

"I mean, why did it have to be us? Why did you have to be the one they chose? Why did I have to be the one you chose?" Sam thought a second before answering.

"Because sometimes," Sam said sadly, "shit happens. We don't get a say in our lives sometimes." Nora sat in silence for a moment, then pulled away. Her eyes were teary, but as she looked into Sam's eyes, her face calmed, looking as if she had just realized something important.

"You're right," she said, swallowing down her tears, taking a steadying breath. "Sometimes we have no control. For example, I told you I had no reason to trust you. And I still don't. But just because I have no reason I can think of for it doesn't mean it's not true. You should know better than anyone else." She was closer to him now, and Sam could see what was coming. And, as much as he wanted it to happen, there were other matters at hand. He tried to mutter an excuse, to pull away, but still she was closer than ever. "I really like you, Sam," she said softly.

"Nora, I have to--Dean--" She ignored him. Her hands rested on either side of his face, her eyes locked with his.

Why not? He liked her, she liked him. Yet when her lips touched his, he didn't react, still undecided.

Was this because of Jess? Was this because of Sarah? Did he feel like he owed them something, like he was betraying them? Or was it Dean? Was something he had said about Nora so long ago still sticking with Sam, keeping him from following the course he wanted?

Dean needed him now. More than Nora. But the time he had spent trying to decide had probably given Nora the impression that he didn't want to stop.

No, actually, that was probably because he _was_ responding, kissing her back with equal intensity.

_Oh, shit, _he thought. _Not again. _He couldn't have another incident like that Halloween party. This actually could turn out much worse. They were alone in a hotel room, with no Dean to stop them. He didn't want to hurt her.

"Nora," he said, pulling away for a second. "I can't. You know--"

"Your eyes aren't black," she said. Sam was surprised. That meant that it was really him, that he really did want to go through with this.

She pulled herself closer to him, her arms around his neck, as he rested both of his hands on each side of her head, running one hand through her short hair. He had a sudden flashback to all the times when they had been possessed together. They had both been through the same thing, and that whole experience had forged a sort of love-hate relationship between the two.

It wasn't the first time he had kissed her, far from it. They had gotten good at it. It felt natural. But it felt good knowing that it was of his own free will that he did this. He wanted to kiss her, not the thing inside of him.

And this was really Nora, the good Nora, not the possessed one, the one that was pressing herself closer to him every second.

_No, Dean. He's in trouble. I can't do this when he's out there._ He tried to pull away, but his back was to the wall. Nora didn't let up, and she was more forceful this time, pinning him there. He was beginning to have painful Natalie flashbacks. Nora's hands wandered to his jacket, carefully beginning to pull it off.

_Oh, god. Now I **really** can't do this._

Yet, at the most unexpected time, just as she was finishing undoing the buttons of his shirt, she pulled away grudgingly, still gazing into his eyes. Her eyes, though, were different. Cold.

"Shit," she muttered, out of breath, but still clutching his shirt.

"What?" Sam asked quietly.

"He's back," she snarled, pulling a gun out from some hiding place in her jacket, spinning around, still sitting merely inches from Sam.

The guns cocked at the exact same time.

"_Jackass_," she growled.

"_Slut_," Dean responded from the doorway in a matching tone. His gaze flickered to what he could see of Sam, his eyes looking him up and down, checking for injuries.

"Dean, calm down--"

"You fell for it, didn't you?" Dean said quietly, shaking his head as if he was disappointed. "I told you, but you just didn't believe me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said, reaching for his own gun, but still undecided about where to point it.

"You don't have to pretend, Dean," Nora said. "I told him what happened." Dean raised an eyebrow. "About last night, how they got to you, how you're possessed."

"That's total and complete bullshit, and you know it, you lying bitch."

"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Sam said loudly.

"Your girlfriend is a manipulative little whore, that's what's going on. She tried to kill me, but ran off. I figured she'd double back here for you. Let me guess, she threw you some bullshit story and then stuck her tongue down your throat. Didn't you manage to catch the 666s on her skull?"

"How do I know you're not lying--" Sam started, ignoring the smartass comment.

"How do you know?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm your brother. Do you think I'd lie to you?" Sam kept his gun ready and poised. "Sam, put the gun down. I'm not going to hurt _you_." Sam pulled Nora to his side protectively, but she, to his surprise, pushed him out of the way.

"Dean, calm down," she said in a soothing voice, still keeping her gun out. "I'm not going to try and kill you. I was never going to."

"Step away from my brother, Nora," Dean responded.

"You don't honestly believe--" Sam said.

"It comes down to who you trust, Sam," Dean said. "It's not like I'm going to kill you if you don't, but I will be forced to knock you out."

"Since when are we taking sides, Dean?" Sam said.

"Since she decided to betray you, that's when! She came back to get you to trust her, so that it would be easier when she stabbed you in the back!" Sam swallowed.

"This isn't the way to handle--"

"Sam, she wants to turn you over to them."

"You don't know that," Sam argued, his voice strained.

"Come on, Sam," Nora said from his side. "He tried to _kill_ me."

"There's one more thing," Dean added, digging in his pocket. "You know your two buddies in the alleyway? This fell out of the guy's pocket." He pulled out the picture of Sam "This," he said, pulling out a second sheet of paper, "is what I found in your little girlfriend's bag." He unfolded it, to show the exact same picture, but more worn out.

"Alright," Nora said in a deadly calm voice. "In that case..."

In one swift motion, she was at Dean's side. Another movement, and Dean was on the floor clutching his nose. She now had Dean's gun and was aiming it at his head.

"No offense, Sam," Dean said, his voice forced. "But I _so_ told you so."

Nora smiled, her 'cute' face suddenly severe, her brown eyes fierce, her hair falling crazily into her eyes.

"Nice job, Sam," she said, her smile widening. "You did wonderfully. It worked." Dean's head snapped around so fast it looked like a blur. Sam's face far from comforted him.

"What?"

**Author's Note: Bum Bum BUM!!! How was THAT for a twist? I know it probably makes no sense at this point, but, hey, that's what the next chapter is for.**

**Um...what's left to say? REVIEW! Now, I can't think of any more ploys to convince you guys, and I figure this'll work better, so here are Sam and Dean for you!**

**Dean: Why did we agree to this again?**

**Sam: There was some sort of threat involved, I do believe. Something about how she won't make me evil permanently if you review.**

**Dean: Why does she like to make you evil anyway?**

**Author: Because it's hot, of course.**

**Sam and Dean: What?!**

**Author: Well, not the whole homocidal part. I just have this mental picture in my head, and Sam is really freaking hot. Oh, and you have a BETTER FREAKING HAIRCUT WHEN YOU'RE EVIL!**

**Sam: What's wrong with my hair?**

**Dean: Sam, shut up and do the puppy dog eyes.**

**Sam: Fine, please review. (-puppy dog eyes-)**

**Author: Mwhahahahahahaha!!!**


	43. The Feeling We've Been Here Before

**Chapter 43: The Feeling We've Been Here Before**

"What?" Dean repeated. Sam simply stood still, his eyes blank. There was no way of telling what he was thinking. Nora smirked.

"I said 'it worked', dumbass."

"It worked?" Dean said angrily, and turned on Sam. "_What_ worked?" Sam's mouth was open slightly, his brow creased.

"It's not..." he breathed. "This isn't what you think."

"Then what is it, Sam?!" Dean said, raising his voice.

"I..." Sam said, his voice uncertain.

"Don't worry, Dean," Nora said. "He's still your innocent little brother for now. He doesn't even know what I'm talking about. Sam, I'm sorry to tell you this, but you just sealed you and your brother's fates."

"You see, Sam," Dean said. "This is why you don't just go around making out with random girls. And if you do, make sure they're not evil spawn."

"Shut up, Dean," Nora said sharply.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"I'm trying to have a little chat with your brother." At that moment, she cocked her head to the side slightly in Sam's direction, and he inhaled sharply. Dean watched as he doubled over, the Colt clattering to the floor as he clutched his head.

"What the hell are you doing to him?" Nora looked unfazed. She tilted her head to the side, watching as Sam cried out once more.

"Do you remember _now_?" she asked. Sam didn't respond. "We had a plan, Sam. You remember the night before you came. We told you what you had to do. And though we erased the memory, just in case, you were bound to act just like we told you to." Nora's eyes glinted wickedly. "The kiss was the trigger. It was just general stupidity that made you trust me. We had no part in that. Even_ Dean_ managed to figure it out, albeit a bit too late for him." Sam took a shuddering breath, and when Dean started forward to help him up, Nora turned her gaze on him. "I'd stay away if I were you. We don't want to make this more painful for Sam, do we? He made me a vow. I have the control around here. I can make this as painful for him as I want, until I decide to make it stop. You're not giving me much incentive." With difficulty, and throwing Nora a look that clearly told her exactly what how he wanted to kill her, he remained where he was, watching Sam pull himself upright, gritting his teeth and remaining silent. Seeing the pain on Sam's face, Dean felt a sharp pang in his chest as well. Dean swallowed, and Sam's fingers wound discreetly around the Colt behind his back once more.

"Don't even try it, Sam," Nora said in a cold voice. "Resisting this will only make it harder on yourself. I can make this go on as long as I want. I have all day." Sam didn't let go of the gun, and he bit his lip against the pain. "Of course, pain probably won't make you come back to us. It never had all that much of an effect on you when you set your mind to it. But just by ignoring me, it's hurting. Part of it all. We knew you would eventually come back to us." Sam still clutched the weapon, and he had to try even harder to remain silent. Nora rolled her eyes. "Fine, be stubborn. But if not for yourself, do it for Dean. And it'll stop as soon as you let me have my say. I'll make this stop as soon as you let me talk to you. We just need to have a little chat. Come on, it won't hurt you to just listen to what I have to say." Sam slid the Colt away from him, flexing his fingers as if they had been burned.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said, trying to put up a decent front of confidence. "She can't shoot to save her life." He threw her a cocky grin. "I learned that first hand." Nora's eyes narrowed as she shifted the gun slightly. With a bang, one bullet went racing into the lamp at the bedside table, hitting it directly in the center.

"If you don't shut up right now, next time that'll be one of your heads," she warned.

"What do you want?" Sam asked through clenched teeth, his voice tired, though he knew the answer. Dean knew too.

"Guess," she said.

"We can help you," Sam said, using his most calming voice. "You can get away from this."

"Don't pull your mediator shit on me, Sam. It pisses me off, and when I get pissed off people tend to get shot." She fingered the trigger teasingly. Dean shifted uncomfortably. She turned her attention to him. "Not that much fun on that end, is it, smartass?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sam asked, drawing her attention back.

"I had no other choice," she said, her tone giving nothing away.

"So they _did_ threaten you?"

"Didn't we already go over this, Sammy?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"Sam," Dean corrected, and even though they were in a life threatening situation, Sam still raised an eyebrow at his brother. "Nobody gets to call him Sammy but me, bitch."

"Are _you_ the one with the gun, Dean?" Nora asked. When Dean remained silent, she smiled mockingly. "I thought not. Now, _Sammy_," she said, saying the last word with emphasis in Dean's direction. "I don't believe I have to answer that question. That's really not what I have in mind for our conversation." Sam swallowed, and he and Nora locked eyes. Dean couldn't decipher, and if he didn't know better he would have assumed they were using telepathy or something.

"They want you back," she said. Sam's face hardened.

"And Dean?" Sam replied, his voice icier than usual.

"The offer has changed, Sam," she said, but her voice was less hostile. "They want Mr. Smartass over there, too."

"Actually," Dean added, "I prefer _Doctor_ Smartass. Nobody appreciates out ta;lents as much as we would--"

"He's not going anywhere," Sam said, his voice deadly calm, his tone so self-assured Dean raised an eyebrow. Nora raised a single eyebrow, pursing her lips as her eyes flicked from Sam's angry expression to Dean's shocked one. "Look," Sam said. "I'll make you a deal."

"Now you're talking my language," Nora said with a smirk.

"I'll go without a fight, just like last--"

"No," Dean cried at Sam, who looked at him with a pained expression. 'I'm sorry, Dean,' he seemed to say. "You can't do this, Sam! Not fucking again! I've been in this situation once before. I didn't like it then, I don't like it now."

"What am I supposed to say, Dean?"

"I don't know, but I, as the big brother, am supposed to tell Nora, the backstabbing bitch, that she has to go through me to get to you."

"Oh, that was my full intention," Nora said in the sweetest voice she could manage to put on.

"You are not doing this again, Sam," Dean said, his voice low and as commanding as he could make it. He couldn't lose Sam, not again.

"Do you think I like this prospect?" Sam snapped. "Do you think I _want_ to go back? No. But I have to."

"No, you don't." Sam rolled his eyes and turned to Nora. Dean started to move forward, eyeing Nora's gun warily.

"Go ahead," she said. "But Dean, I'd take your brother's offer. If he can get you out of what we're going to do to you, all the power to him. There are some really creative ideas floating around the think-tank."

"For what?" Sam choked out, carefully covering up his horror.

"People like you were implanted with the virus when you were children, and it only works with people like you. Correct?" Sam nodded. "Let's just say that these days we're not restrained to those limitations. It works; I was the test-run, the lab rat in this particular experiment. I personally like the way I turned out. Doesn't catch me when someone says 'Christo' either." Sam flinched, and her smile broadened. "They've updated the old technology. Of course, it's longer and more painful there's always that annoying little chance that it will go wrong and he'll die, but if you could survive what they put you through and come out sane, I'm sure he'll make it. We could have infinite uses for both of you together. Just think about it..." Nora smirked. She knew that she had brought up the exact subject, given the exact threat that was bound to get a response out of Sam.

"Don't even think about it..." Dean began, but Sam's thoughts were in another place completely. His face was thoughtful, calculating.

"I'll go with you, but only on the same terms as last time. Dean is left alone."

"You're not really in a position to bargain, Sam," Nora pointed out, acknowledging the gun trained on Dean.

"I won't do much good to you dead, will I?" Sam replied coldly. The nausea rose in Dean's stomach.

"They'll kill you anyway if you don't cooperate. You know that."

"But don't you think it would be much better for you if I was brought back alive?" Sam and Nora's gazes bored into each other. Dean found it amazing that one person could pull off both the puppy dog eyes and the 'I'm going to beat the living shit out of you,' eyes both with such accuracy.

"Fine," Nora said.

"Please, Sam," Dean said, his voice cracking.

"I can't let them do that to you," Sam said, not looking at Dean. "I can't let them put you through that."

"Sam, please don't," Dean said, taking another wary step toward Sam that brought him almost to his side.

"Don't start," Sam said, stepping away from his brother, his voice colder than Dean would have expected. It wasn't hard to decipher what Sam was trying to do. "Just let me go." His tone was warning, but there was something else in there.

"I'm not going to let you go," Dean said, grabbing Sam's arm in a firm grip.

"No," Sam snapped, yanking his arm away. His eyes were their normal brown, but the icy look of the other Sam was lingering. He took a few sharp breaths, and his eyes softened a bit. "No," he repeated. "But I promise you..." It was simply a whisper, so low that even Nora probably couldn't hear it. He didn't finish the sentence, and Dean didn't know what the promise was for.

"Promise what?" Sam smiled very slightly and without humour in response. Nora was rolling her eyes in a bored way, waving her hand in a signal that they could have another minute.

"I promise..." Sam took a deep breath, and lowered his voice so far that Dean had to struggle to hear him. "I promise we'll see each other again. I _swear_ to you."

"This is like a scene out of a soap opera," Nora commented as she stood by Sam's side, the barrel of the gun touching his temple. "Not even the entertaining kind. Just the really crappy kind."

"You'll fight them, right? You won't let them take you back, no matter what they threaten to do to me or anybody else?" Dean said, his voice cracking. Sam's eyes had a dead edge to them. He didn't smile, but for one second--one short second--there was a glint in his eyes that gave Dean a small bit of hope. It left as soon as it came, and Dean wondered if he had just imagined it. Sam's brow furrowed.

"I don't think so, Dean," he said. "But please trust me."

Dean shook his head, not understanding. Sam didn't offer a further explanation.

"Are we done here?" Nora said. When neither of the brothers spoke, staring at each other, she grabbed Sam by the arm, shoving him roughly along, the gun held to his head. Sam closed his eyes for a brief second at the door, and then he looked back at Dean. He smiled, a quite unexpected reaction. He looked peaceful.

"I promise," he mouthed.

Dean tried to follow, but the door locked a second before he left the room. He twisted the knob to no avail, some outside force having jammed it. Without wasting any time, he grabbed his and Sam's newly-packed bags. (Thank god they didn't carry much around. The duffels were both light.) He moved over to the window and with one sharp kick broke the glass. He was outside in less than a minute.

Too busy pulling his keys out, fumbling over the loops, he heard it. The unmistakeable sound of the Charger's engine split through the air.

"No," Dean yelled angrily as the sleek black car skidded out of the parking lot. "Bitch!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, just in case she was within hearing range.

_She kidnaps my brother _and _steals my car. That's it; this bitch is going_ down

Now with no car, no money, and practically no weapons except for the few he had kept, which were, luckily, the most useful, with only the bags he held in his arms, Dean Winchester found himself alone once more.

**Author's Note: Yeah, so kind of repetitive from the first chapter. I know. But trust me, this is going somewhere totally different. We won't be missing our Sammy for very long AT ALL.**

**Um...so, review. Yeah. I'm tired, and I can't really think of anything else.**

**Up Next: I can't really tell you that, can I ?**

**Until next time...**


	44. Different Than The Others

**Chapter 44: Different Than The Others **

A solitary figure continued to walk along the road, surrounded by seemingly endless fields. His silhouette revealed how tense he was, though by closer inspection his face was impassive. His shoulders were hunched slightly and his hands wandered, fidgeting with the straps of the two duffel bags he carried. His eyes were calculating, though nobody would ever be able to guess how much he was panicking.

That was Dean Winchester for you.

He bit his lip, the first visible sign of emotion he had given in the past three hours. His brow furrowed and slowly he brought himself to a grudging stop. This wasn't doing him any good. He didn't even know where he was going or what he planned to do when he got there. Sam was missing and could have gone anywhere. Dean had no car and was trapped in the middle of nowhere. There weren't even any decent cars to steal or cheap ones to buy.

"Think," Dean muttered to himself, closing his eyes to block out the distracting surroundings, even though he had barely looked at them for several hours.

What were the chances of finding Sam now?

_Little to none. But I'll go for the little I have._

What was he supposed to do now? Go to Missouri? He didn't even know where the hell he was, with no way of knowing how far the next town was. He couldn't hitch-hike; there weren't any cars nearby. In the entire span of time he had spent on that road, not a single truck had passed by his vision. He plopped down on the side of the road, his head in his hands. How had they managed to come full circle?

"Shit," Dean hissed between his teeth, hoping for his mind to clear up, for the fog to dissipate. He couldn't think, he couldn't feel. "Shit, shit shit. How could I let this happen?"

He kicked out at the dirt, sending it spraying everywhere. He wished there was something else. A tree, anything. Anything he could hit. He didn't care how much he got hurt in return. He deserved it.

Sam knew what they would do to him and he still had gone. How could he have been so stupid?

It was his fault. All his fault. He should have gotten Nora when he had the chance. He should have shot the bitch between the eyes, screw the fact that Sam trusted her. It was too obvious why she was there. The little signs were adding up in his mind again, and his kicked himself internally once more for hesitating. Because of him, Sam was gone.

Again. There was no telling what they would do to him. What they could be doing to him at that moment. He heard the screams from his dream again, echoing in his head, taunting him. Dean's heart rate sped up, and he rubbed his temples, willing the screaming to stop. It did, finally, making way for silence. Unbearable silence that only reminded him of how alone he was.

"Sammy," he whispered, remembering the gashes on his brother's body, the blood everywhere. They had done that to him once, and they would do it again. Only this time it would be worse. That much Dean was sure of. The demon didn't take kindly to traitors.

He had to get to Sam somehow. He just had to get a car, either hitching a ride or acquiring his own.

As if in answer to his prayer, he felt more than heard the rumble of an engine behind him. He spun around and stuck his arm out, but though the car was far away, coming from the opposite direction he was going, the person inside had seen him. He tapped the brakes once, but didn't slow down totally. He was still going at a fast pace. Whoever it was must have been either in a hurry or just a crazy driver. Dean didn't mind; he was in a hurry, too, and he was crazy enough himself to even up the scale.

The old, rusty car skidded to a stop directly in front of Dean, spraying a thick cloud of dust directly into Dean's face. He coughed and waved at the air in front of him, grabbing his bags with his free hand. He was still reluctant to open his stinging eyes, though, and had to feel around for a second.

"Get in," the voice said, rushed.

Dean forced his eyes open. His mouth agape, he breathed, "How..."

"You didn't honestly believe that I was going to fall for that shit _again,_ did you?" The driver grinned, the smile spreading across his face. Dean couldn't help smiling, too. It had been so long since he had seen it touch his brother's eyes. "Get in," Sam repeated. "I don't know how long it'll take for her to wake up back there, and I don't know how many people saw me steal this car, so we should probably get the hell out of here." Dean hesitated for one short second, but then remembered that it would take a few days for the process to finish completely and his eyes would be black anyway. He climbed into the car, taking a quick account of Sam's injuries. Sam was bleeding pretty badly from a wound in his shoulder, and he avoided putting pressure on his left wrist. He managed, all the same, to get the car going, and they roared off.

"So how did you get away?" Dean asked Sam, who seemed to have not sunk back into his normal depressive numbness. His eyes were alert for once, and he seemed in a better mind. Then again, he could just have been becoming a better actor.

"Not to sound pompous or anything," Sam said with a weak smile, some of his excitement fading away, "but Nora made a big mistake with trusting me not to fight back. She could have at least knocked me out or _something_."

"So you weren't serious about going with her? About going back?" Dean watched as Sam thought for a second. His brow furrowed the tiniest little bit before he shook his head.

"No, I was serious about going with her," Sam said quietly, staring out at the road, concentrating as he took a sharp right turn so fast that Dean hit his head against his window when he was thrown to the side. Sam flexed the fingers on his left hand, wincing in pain with every move. "But I wasn't serious about going back." He smiled briefly in Dean's direction. "I just had to get her to take the gun off of you, just in case, and wait for the opportunity. Nora's new to the program, she doesn't know that rule back there: Never trust the word of anyone. She honestly thought I was going to go down without a fight." Sam flexed his fingers once more.

"Are you alright?" Dean asked, concerned that Sam's attention wasn't totally on the road. He was weaving through the few cars that had appeared with ease, though, using only one hand, the other looking totally useless. Sam glanced at Dean, hearing the question. His eyes were vulnerable for a moment, and Dean could see he was really in pain in more than one way. Sam took a deep breath, closing his eyes. With his bad hand he reached to his neck. Something flashed across his face: pure panic.

"Sam?" Dean said, ready to grab the wheel if necessary. Sam blinked a few times, and they veered off of the lane for a split second. "Sam?" He repeated. "What did she do to you?" Sam's eyes slowly traveled over to Dean's face. His eyes were confused.

"She must have gotten me when I was getting out," he said, his voice a mere mumble. Sam's brow furrowed in concentration.

"How did you not notice her stick a fucking needle into your neck?"

"Because there are other ways of getting it into someone's system," Sam snapped. "Sometimes you don't notice until it's too late. They tend to do that when they're afraid you'll try to escape, so that you don't get very far, and I guess Nora was smarter than I gave her credit for."

"What does this mean?" Dean asked, his voice giving away how panicked he felt.

"I don't really know," Sam said, trying to get to the side of the road through the now-thick traffic. They were stuck in the middle lane, though, and the cars on both sides were unyielding. "It depends if she put something else in there."

"And on what that is," Dean finished, trying to keep his breathing controlled. He watched to see any swerving in Sam's driving, but though his hands were shaking madly, he kept the truck on course. "How long do you have if it's just the stuff they normally gave you?"

"It depends," Sam said. "They tried out a lot of different things to see what worked. Usually it's within five minutes, though. This is different..." he shook his head, his eyes clouding. This time the car veered, and Sam hit the windshield in frustration, only to realize, too late, that his wrist was still hurt. "This isn't the same thing." He gasped out and doubled over, trying hard to keep his grip on the steering wheel. Gritting his teeth, he forced his head up.

"Sam, pull over," Dean said in a commanding tone.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Sam snapped, and then closed his eyes, afraid of getting mad. "Shit," he hissed, trying in vain to pull between two cars. One man honked his horn, shaking a fist, and Sam cursed again.

"How long do you think you have?" Dean asked, worried. Sam shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"Two minutes before I'll have to concentrate on keeping control," Sam said, though his voice was questioning. "Five to ten before I'll lose consciousness, but that might not happen at all if it's one of the earlier versions."

"Alright," Dean said as the cars before them came to a stop. "Is your arm going to be ok for you to put pressure on it?" Sam nodded, biting his lip.

"Yeah."

"It's not broken?"

"I don't know. I've had worse, though. Let's go." Dean grabbed the steering wheel lightning quick. The cars ahead were already inching forward bit by bit, and the woman in the car next to them was staring. Dean didn't care, though, and Sam carefully slid into the backseat, practically dragging himself. Dean wasn't sure how much longer Sam had before passing out. And if they were still stuck like this and the demons knew where they were, then they were sitting ducks. Dean stepped down on the gas just as the cars started speeding up, taking a quick glance at Sam in the backseat. He wasn't looking good.

"Just try to stay awake, Sam." Sam nodded, his eyes looking groggy. Dean felt a pang in his stomach as he looked at Sam's completely trusting gaze. That meant Sam knew he would be useless soon. "I'm going to keep driving for a few more hours, and then we'll stop." Once more, Sam nodded. "How's your shoulder?"

Dean was worried when Sam didn't respond, but then he heard the faint voice from the back seat. "I'll manage." Dean started to remove his jacket, hoping maybe it would slow the bleeding, but Sam protested, "No, really, I'm fine. I'm not dying or..." his voice had become even softer "...or any--shit!"

"What!" Dean half-yelled, twisting around, but it was too late. Sam's eyes were closed tightly, his hands clenched at his side, his legs dawn up to his torso. He looked as if he were deep in a nightmare. "Sammy!"

* * *

_Sam stood in the middle of what looked like a forest. He did a quick 360 to see no apparent way of escape. It was obvious that this was the same woods from his dream. But where was Dean? Where was he?_

_"This is a different forest than the one in your vision. Don't worry," a voice answered for him, and Sam froze. The icy feeling that had crept into his stomach every time he heard that was finally coming back. Sam slowly turned, and there he was. He had found a different body, but the yellow eyes were a dead giveaway. _

_"Why are we so shocked, Sammy?" the demon said in a light tone, pushing off from the tree he had been leaning against. "You didn't honestly believe you could avoid me for very long?" Sam just stood there, willing his body to respond, but as much as he hated admitting it, he was terrified. He had a right to be after what this demon had done to him, to his family. He couldn't even feel angry, just scared._

_"I'm dreaming..." Sam said, shaking his head. The demon raised an eyebrow, and then with a flick of his wrist sent Sam flying. For a second he felt suspended in thin air before he hit the tree. He wondered if he had just imagined the snapping sound he had heard. His ribs ached as he slid to the ground on his hands and knees, gasping for air._

_"Does this feel like a dream, son?"_

_"Don't you dare call me that," Sam hissed. "You can't control me anymore, and you know it." The demon smiled, the evil grin transforming his face into a grim mask._

_"Not now. But how much longer can you keep yourself and your family safe?" Sam glared at him._

_"As long as I have to," he responded, standing up._

_"That's so sweet," the demon said as he began to pace. "But you will come back to us."_

_"Is that a fact? Because as I remember it, _I'm_ the psychic here."_

_"You don't have a choice," the demon said, his voice carrying the same commanding tone as it had during the time period that Sam had referred to him as 'master'. The memory made his stomach twist painfully once more, and as hard as he tried to suppress it, he winced. The demon noticed it and his smile widened. "Look at you," he said, taking a step toward Sam, who backed up a few steps of his own. "Is this really how you want to live your life?" The demon kept walking, and Sam took a few more steps, only to find his back against a tree. The demon stood before him, and though their heights were about even, he towered over Sam. He was aware of the power he had over him._

_"As opposed to the alternatives, I'll take my chances," Sam hissed, dodging away from the tree. The demon followed him, the slightest bit of annoyance touching his eyes as Sam hit another tree. He stayed where he was, though, studying Sam's face for what seemed like ages. Sam didn't even move. _

_The demon started forward again, a glint in his eyes._

_"You really **were** like a son to me," the demon said, and Sam snorted, unable to put the feeling into it that would make it believable._

_"Of course I was," Sam said sarcastically. "All of the yelling and commanding was just affection." The demon's eyes narrowed, but not angrily. He advanced once more, scrutinizing Sam's face, and Sam only too late remembered that he was backed up against the tree. The demon put one arm on each side of the tree and leaned in, his face in Sam's. _

_"You were one of the best I've ever worked with. A little too defiant, stubborn, but still...you have so much potential. It's a pity you won't let me help you. It would be so much less painful."_

_"I don't need your help. Sorry." The demon still remained unfazed._

_"All the same," he said indifferently, "you will join us again. What you want is of no consequence. It doesn't matter what you want, only what we want from you. And what we want, we get." Sam had to breathe carefully through his clenched teeth, trying to remain as calm as he could with the man--the creature--that had put him through the worst ordeal of his life standing so close to him. With all the strength he could muster, he forced the demon away from him._

_"Do not," he started angrily, "act like you own me or can control me anymore. I don't care what I did or didn't do back then, but that wasn't me. You have control over him because you created him, but I can do whatever I want to." The demon's smile vanished. In it's place was a hard mask. His yellow eyes glinted madly in the darkness._

_"Sammy," he said with a sneer, knowing the name pissed him off, "this **was** what you wanted." Sam swallowed. It was only a matter of time before this came out. The demon leaned closer, so their faces were merley inches from each other. "Don't you remember? I wouldn't blame you if you didn't; that was a hard time for you. You told us no at first, and then, slowly we wore you down. You asked for me to kill you, to do anything to just make it stop. We made it stop. You were reborn; we gave you new life, a better life."_

_"I was never asking for one," Sam forced out through the bile rising in his throat. _

_"Dean doesn't even know, does he?" He grinned crookedly. "You'll tell him that you killed a woman and doomed a family the same way as yours, but you won't admit to him that you chose life."_

_"He doesn't need to know."_

_"Because he'd think you were weak..." the demon finished for him. "It wasn't weakness. It was logic. You didn't want to suffer. There was no point to it. You joined us, you got a better quality life. You'll survive much longer with us than in running around shooting blindly. If your father hadn't come after me, hadn't gone on his stupid crusade, I might have left you alone. But I couldn't resist you, Sam. You were just there, ready, willing. You had already defied your father, your family. I knew you would jump at any opportunity to make your father angry. If you couldn't make him proud, you would show him that you didn't need his praise. You didn't need **him**." Sam looked down._

_"Don't listen to him," he muttered to himself under his breath._

_"That," the demon said, louder, and directly in his face so that Sam had to try even harder to block out the words, "was why you got into that fight in high school, when those kids were picking on you. That was why you were so vulnerable when you left for college."_

_"Shut up," Sam warned, but his voice gave away too much of the fear. The demon continued, knowing that if he could talk about one memory that would cause Sam pain, that was it._

_"Those two needs clashed with each other. You didn't know it, but you were fighting a battle that day. You were so close to becoming one of us, it was amazing. You were the first child that had shown signs prematurely. You were wide open to us. You wouldn't have put up a fight."_

_"Shut up," Sam repeated._

_"You barely had anything to live for. Your father, the person you had most wanted to be proud of you, told you he was ashamed of you. The one person you had wanted to love you had turned his back, had told you he didn't love you anymore."_

_"He didn't--"_

_"Yes," the demon said, in an unusually comforting voice, watching the youngest Winchester biting his lip. He knew how much it hurt to remember that night. "He did. They broke your heart that night, and you know you've just been waiting for that moment to pay them back for the things they said to you. You want them to be sorry for it. At least, at that moment you did. It's those thoughts that are the seed of what we are. We can help you. We know how much it hurts. We can make that stop for you. Don't you want it to stop?"_

_Sam remained silent. Anyone in present company wouldn't have been able to tell his thoughts._

_"Yeah," Sam agreed in a weak voice, his eyes blank in defeat. Slowly he raised his eyes to the demon's. "But I'd rather feel that pain, every bit of it, than nothing."_

_"Once more," the demon said, his voice back to the icy calm he had exuded during the rest of the conversation. "Not your choice. You will be what you meant to be. We know what's best for you. We know what you really want."_

_"I am a person," Sam snarled. "Not a toy or a dog or a soldier. I can do whatever I want."_

_"Yes, so I have heard," the demon responded, rolling his eyes. "You know, you are the most ungrateful little son of a bitch I have ever had the displeasure to work with. You're so god damned stubborn." He shook his head disgustedly, then unexpectedly smiled. "But that's exactly what's special about you." He moved forward once more, and Sam stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, curious, terrified, and angry all at the same time. "You're different than the others, Sam. You did what none of the rest of them could. You lasted longer than we ever thought you could, and even then you still kept part of yourself. How can you just be so determined to stay like this?" He looked Sam up and down, a hungry look in his eyes as he tried to discover what was so special about one stupid little Kansas-boy._

_"I don't know," Sam said truthfully._

_"How much longer can you hide? Truthfully." Sam didn't answer. "When you were with us...it was amazing, Sam. You were faster, stronger, smarter than all the others. Your powers matured even though we tried to stifle them all those years. You're one of us. You always have been, even when we weren't controlling you. You have no idea how much you could do." The demon looked directly into his eyes, barely blinking, and Sam was forced to look away first, angry. "Don't tell me you didn't love it. The power. You finally felt at home among us. You felt better than when you were with your brother. And what you're putting yourself through is just ridiculous and unnecessary. Do you like the pain this is causing you?" Sam continued glaring, pouring all of his hatred out through his eyes. "It will just be worse, then."_

_"Just shut up," Sam said, but his voice was painfully weak. "I'm going to fight you with everything I have. Nothing you can do will stop that."_

_"Really?" The demon said, an eyebrow going up. "Because there was something else that Nora gave you with that sedative. You see, I've finally decided to take you up on your idea. I know I said it could kill you, but I have a new philosophy: if I can't have you, nobody can. So it really doesn't matter if this doesn't work. If you die, then that will be one less threat to us. Yes, I would have preferred to bring you back and start the process over, and I had some plans for that, too, but this is just so much easier." Sam was frozen to the spot, his insides turned to ice, and not just from fear. The demon reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. Sam didn't have the strength to shove him away. "You really are the most promising out of all of them, you know. I hope you live through this." He shook his head as Sam fell to the ground. He squatted down beside him, and added as a last remark, "It's a shame Dean has to be there when it happens. Don't you just hate it?" He smiled and then straightened up, waving cheerfully back at Sam before leaving him. _

_

* * *

_

"Sam!" Dean repeated in a loud voice to his unresponsive brother. He had pulled over five minutes previously when Sam had started shivering. He hadn't improved, and his forehead was heating up. He had remained unconscious, and his breathing was irregular.

Was this what was supposed to happen? Was this something more serious? He didn't have the slightest clue what to do if it was serious. Call 911? No, they would take him to a hospital and they were both as good as dead anyway. Sam would kill him. Sam's breathing was panicked, and his head was turning as if he was having a bad dream. His hand squeezed Dean's with a growing intensity, as if to lend him moral support. His pulse raced under Dean's fingers, which was bad; the more his heart pumped, the faster the poison raced through his body.

This was different than just a simple sleeping drug. This was serious. Dean was absolutely sure. Sam had said he would just be unconscious for awhile, he had never said anything about a fever or having trouble breathing. Sam's breath was what was worrying him the most. There was no way Sam could keep up this on-the-verge-of-hyperventilating pace without something giving out. And that's pretty much what happened.

Dean's first tip-off was when Sam's grip weakened in his until it had become totally limp. The second was when his breathing slowed, and then came to a grudging stop.

The third was when his heart stopped.

**Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving! Yeah, I know, I know. Cliffhangers suck. I can't help but writing them, though. Sorry. They're not going to stop any time soon.**

**So what do you think? Do you think whatever the demon had planned went wrong, or do you think this is exactly what was supposed to happen? Hmmm...**

**Oh, and you will find out what the demon is talking about when he mentioned the night Sam left for college. Half of the flashback will be about 4 chapters from now, and I haven't written the second half yet. That's what I'm working on now.**

**Up Next: As Dean struggles to save his brother's life, Sam is going through his own struggle against the demon, who forces Sam to make a costly deal.**

**Until next time...**


	45. A Deal With The Devil

**Chapter 45: A Deal With The Devil **

It took Dean a few seconds to react, for the shock to wear off, and for him to realize that Sam had no heartbeat. He checked again, hoping he had just imagined it. He hadn't. There was no movement of blood through Sam's veins.

"Shit," he said. "Sam! Come on, man! Not again!" He began CPR, starting compressions, but somehow, deep down, he knew what the outcome would be. He didn't allow himself to despair yet. The full implications of the situation hadn't hit home. His brain didn't want to process such information, and he still didn't lose hope. Even when it became obvious that if Sam didn't start breathing soon it would be too late, he didn't totally get it.

He didn't sob or break down like he had last time. His mind was on a one-way track and he couldn't pull it off. Sam was going to live; that was all he needed to think.

Yet as hard as he tried, nothing happened. There was no pulse, no sign of breathing. Nothing. Professional doctors would probably have given up at this point, but Dean wasn't a doctor. Then again, doctors might have been able to help him better than Dean was able to. Sam didn't have a chance without medical equipment, something to shock him with.

"Come on, Sammy," he whispered frantically after another try at resuscitating him, his forehead pressed to his brother's, which was frighteningly cold, a hand resting on either side of Sam's face. "Hang in there. Do this for me, okay? Use some of your freaky psychic shit and come back to me." He ran backed away, running a hand through Sam's hair nervously, watching his face. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he couldn't do anything but sit there and watch. It was past the point where anything he could do would work. He held Sam's limp hand in his, waiting.

Nothing happened. It was too late, and deep down Dean knew it. But he couldn't help that small bit of hope that was shining through.

"Sammy," he said. "You can do this, I know you can."

That was when it happened. The hand on Sam's chest started to hurt as if it were burning. He looked down and saw his hand rested on the tiny scorpion figure hanging around Sam's neck. It still hurt to touch it, and he removed his hand. The moment he pulled away, he realized something else. Something was still going on with the necklace. He couldn't quite place it until Sam's body jerked upward suddenly as if he had been shocked.

"What the--" Dean breathed, thrown off guard as his mind tried to grasp what was happening. Sam drew in a shuddering breath, filling his lungs up to their fullest capacity before letting it out. He coughed madly, falling forward into Dean's arms, the blood from his shoulder wound immediately soaking into Dean's shirt, but he didn't care. Sam was alive and that was all that mattered. Dean clutched his brother to him, disbelieving, running a hand through Sam's hair.

"Don't _ever _do that to me again," Dean muttered, his voice breaking through the tears. He allowed himself to sob once, and then cut it all off. He lowered Sam's torso to the seat, but holding his head up to allow better airflow. Not like it did any good. Sam was still breathing as heavily as ever, a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were closed, his body slack. Clear signs he was unconscious.

But alive.

"Thank you," Dean breathed, though to who he wasn't sure about. The world, he supposed. "Thank you, so much." He drew Sam's cold hand into both of his, squeezing so hard it must have hurt on the other end. "Hey, Sam," he said, keeping his voice quiet as to not cause Sam any further pain. "Do you think you can open your eyes for me? Please?" He sat, wondering if maybe it was too much to ask for. He prayed for another sign of life from Sam.

Dean waited for a long time. He couldn't remember how long, but it felt like an eternity to him. He needed to know that this was a normal sleep, and that Sam wasn't about to die again at any second.

But had he really died in the first place? It hadn't looked to so good for him when whatever that had been had happened.

He didn't care, he decided. Sam was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Slowly, grudgingly almost, Sam's eyes began to flicker open. "What..." Sam gasped, not quite finishing his thought. It was simple enough. Dean released him, tilting Sam's body upright, leaning him back against the seat. He reached over and, using his sleeve, picked up the necklace. There was no question that it had something to do with Sam's near-death experience. Sam's eyes followed Dean's the entire time, just as curious, but with a hint of fear in them. Dean showed it to Sam.

"Did you feel anything, Sam?"

"It was..." Sam breathed. "It was…It shocked me," he said, nodding to the necklace. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "But I think it saved your life."

"My eyes," Sam said, his voice urgent. "Are they..."

"No," Dean said, confused. "They're fine. Why?"

"Oh, thank god," Sam said, closing his eyes. He began to tilt forward, but Dean caught him.

"Whoa, Sammy. It's okay. What happened? Was that supposed to happen?"

"I'll..." Sam started, but his eyelids were drooping. "I'll explain later, alright? I promise. I'm just...so tired...I haven't slept in awhile..." It was true. Even when he had been drugged, it hadn't been enough; Sam had gone through so many sleepless nights that he had a right to be tired. The exhaustion coupled with the fact that his heart had just been shocked back into beating and there was a probably deadly poison still pumping through his body gave him the right to collapse on the spot.

"Alright." Sam sighed, looking relieved. "But if you ever do that to me again, I will kill you, got it?" Sam smiled slightly.

"Deal." He closed his eyes, and Dean knew it would be a matter of mere seconds before he would fall asleep. And, sure enough, his body was starting to go slack in Dean's arms.

Dean stared down at the necklace in his palm, not daring to touch it himself. How had that happened? Had his father's superstitions really paid off in the long run? If they had, then Dean was sending a big 'I told you so' his direction. If Dean had listened to his father, Sam would be dead.

"Sleep well, Sammy," he muttered, his hands trembling as he replaced the necklace underneath Sam's shirt.

* * *

_"Not again," Sam moaned to himself, feeling the dewy ground beneath his back. Even though his eyes were closed, he knew what he would see when he opened them._

_"You know," a voice hissed in his ear, no longer casual-evil, but full-out pissed off, "sometimes I just can't believe you Winchesters. You're constantly surprising me. And not in a good way."_

_"That's nice to hear," Sam mumbled back. The demon inhaled angrily, and Sam could feel more than see (he still hadn't opened his eyes) the boot coming toward him. It pushed down on his windpipe, crushing all the breath he had left. He didn't have the energy to fight back; he couldn't even open his lids._

_"I didn't ask you," the demon said, his voice livid. Sam forced his eyes open to see the demon standing over him, his eyes wild. "I said I am constantly surprised by you Winchesters, and I am. But not because you're remarkably smart, or strong, or brave, but because you're **so freaking lucky**. To think that some tiny voodoo charm managed to stand in the way of me getting what I wanted. You." The pressure was released from his neck, and Sam greedily gulped up the air he was provided with. The demon shoved him to his side. "Get up," he commanded. "I can't stand to see you so pathetic."_

_"I didn't exactly try to kill **myself**, now, did I?" Sam gasped._

_"You don't want me to bring that up, do you?" The demon asked, raising an eyebrow._

_"I'd do it again," Sam spat. The demon's face hardened further, his visage transforming to the point where it would probably have scared children of the age of twelve and younger._

_"I said get up," he hissed, his voice barely distinguishable as human._

_"You can't control me," Sam said coolly, a smile on his face. Sam knew what was coming; he had pissed him off on purpose. After so much time, he knew which buttons to push. The demon threw an arm out, and Sam went flying back, landing roughly on the ground yards away. The breath that he had left whooshed out of his lungs, and he pushed himself to his hands and knees. The demon was already there, squatting down to his level._

_"You have **no idea** how much control I have over you," he said, leaning down, reaching out to touch Sam's shoulder. Sam tried to pull away, but the demon was too fast, holding Sam in his iron grip, forcing his face up towards his own. "Even now, you think you're free. But you're not. You've never been free from me. You've been a prisoner, a follower, your entire life." Sam shook his head. _

_"You're wrong." _

_"How long can you deny it, Sam?" The demon said in a cool voice. "Remember what happened with Nora? You helped us, you betrayed your brother without even realizing what you were doing. How much longer can you pretend that you can control it? What makes you think that you're stronger than me?" Sam didn't respond. "You are coming back to us whether you want to or not. There will be more of us coming your way, and they'll be coming for Dean, too. We know your secret, your weakness. It's him, and your stupid father. And we know that wherever you are, little Dean will be right there, by your side. If we find you, we find him." Sam flinched, and the demon pushed him away, a look of disgust on his face. Sam looked down at the ground. _

_"Leave Dean out of this," he hissed. "This is about me. It has nothing to do with him."_

_"Oh, but it has everything to do with him," the demon said, still angry. "Because of him, you've lasted this long. Because of him, you stood up to Nora. Because of him, back there you found the one way out of my plan. That little son of a bitch has been causing me so much trouble. He's standing in my way, and I can't have that, can I? If we get our hands on him, and you don't cooperate, it's going to be very painful for him, (I believe Nora informed you of some of the ideas we have) and you're going to watch. No, actually," the demon said with a smirk, an idea coming to him, "you're going to do it." Sam sat, his eyes wide in horror. His mouth moved like he was going to say something, but no sound would come out. He couldn't even pull away when the demon leaned down to his ear. "You were meant for us," he whispered. Sam didn't move. "Get up, Sam," he said, louder. Sam didn't know what to do, so, hesitantly, he got to his feet, his eyes blank._

_"That's better," the demon said, patting him on the shoulder. "You're getting the hang of this." Sam turned his head slowly to the demon, still incapable of speech. "Do it for Dean, Sammy," the demon said. "He doesn't have to be hurt. Just come to us of your own free will, and I promise you, he remains safe." Sam turned his head away, staring straight ahead, his gaze unfocused as he thought._

_"How do I know you'll keep up your end?" Sam asked, his voice dead. The demon looked pleasantly surprised that Sam was cooperating._

_"There's no way I can really prove it to you. But you have my word."_

_"Isn't it the first rule, never to trust anyone's word?** You** taught me that." The demon laughed, the sound piercing the silence in the clearing as he rested a hand on Sam's shoulder._

_"I never taught you that. You have me confused with your father." Sam tried not to react as he remembered. Had he actually confused his father with the demon? He suppressed a shudder. "But you** are** getting the hang of it again," he chuckled. "It'll take no time at all to get you back to your old self. Don't worry." Sam remained impassive, calculating as the demon stood at his side. He felt the despair twist in his gut, but refused to let the demon see how terrified he was. "One week," the demon said. "Then I'm sending James and Andrea after you both. You'll know where to find us. Come unarmed and alone." Sam swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides as the demon drew closer. "Don't even think about fighting back," the demon continued at his side. "The poison is still in your system. You'll be dead in a week anyway. I can give you the antidote, but only if you come back to us." Sam's breath was catching in his throat, his chest compressing as if his body was willing itself to die right there instead. "_

_It's a lose-lose situation, Sam. You come to us alone, you start your worst nightmare. You fight back and win, you die and then we go after Dean to kill him in the worst possible way we can find. You fight back and lose, Dean dies by your hand." Sam remained silent. "The choice is yours." Sam's hands were clenched into fists as he attempted to hide the shaking. "Don't be scared, Sammy," the demon muttered into Sam's ear. "Soon you'll be home again." _

_

* * *

_

Sam awoke with a start, his hands sweating, his forehead burning, his stomach churning. The sheets that had been neatly tucked around him were now a tangled mess. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming, willing himself to calm down.

Had that been a dream? And if not a dream, then what? A message? Had the demon found some way to communicate with Sam?

A quick examination told him that Dean had bandaged his arm carefully, his wrist in a hand-made splint. Sam hesitated in pulling up his shirt. When he did, he would have proof whether or not what he had seen had been real. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the fabric.

He got his answer immediately. The bruise stretching down his right side confirmed it; the meeting had been real, the offer had been real.

That brought up a whole new set of problems. What was he going to do? Was he going to take the offer? Was there really any other option? Should he tell Dean?

The last one was the easiest: no.

"Sam?" a voice called from the bathroom as the sound of the shower turned off.

"Yeah, Dean?" He responded.

"How are you feeling?" Sam thought about it, and the first answer that came to mind was nauseous. He figured that wasn't the best response, though, so he improvised.

"Well rested," he replied. The sound of a snort could be heard through the bathroom door.

"You should," Dean said. "You were out for twelve hours. You started to scare me there for a minute." Sam froze for a second.

"Twelve hours?" he said, surprised.

"Yep," Dean answered, exiting the bathroom in his jeans, pulling on a shirt, drying his hair with a small hand-towel. He walked over to Sam, smiling. "You looked like you were having a bad dream, though."

"Yeah," Sam lied. "Just the usual, but it wasn't as bad this time."

"That's good," Dean said, trying to make his tone light. His face was filled with a forced casualness as he checked Sam's shoulder and then his torso. "Hmm...I guess I didn't notice this before."

"I got it when I was trying to escape. Nora's got a rough edge. One minute she's all sweet and 'trust me', the next minute she's beating the living shit out of you." He laughed, trying to make it sound convincing. The muscles in his face spasmed a little, making Dean frown. He could see that something had changed within Sam, that something was wrong. Ever since Dean had stepped out the door and immediately gone to check on Sam, the youngest Winchester had known exactly what to do.

Sam had made up his mind on the offer.

"So," Dean said, "are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Yeah, Dean, sure," he said quietly, but Dean could tell his heart wasn't in the words. "Umm...well, I'm pretty sure whatever she put in that drug was supposed to kill me." Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Do you remember that dream you had in the hospital, where I died and came back to life?" Dean nodded; he could remember all too well. "That's what he was trying to do. You see, when I was back there, he had told me about how you could do that, and I was ready. But he didn't let me; he said I would die if I tried it too early on. I was determined, though, and that's what I tried to do when I first came back. I survived, though. But just then, twelve hours ago, I guess the demon's thinking was that it didn't matter whether I died or not. If he couldn't have me nobody could." Dean blinked, trying to process the information. Sam leaned back against his pillows, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm the terror that was coursing through him.

"Do you need to sleep some more? You're bound to still have some of the poison in your system. I mean, I don't know how that necklace saved your life, but it did. I'm not sure if it took the poison out of your body, though."

"No, I don't want to sleep," Sam objected quickly. He had no doubt that the next time he fell asleep the demon would be there, reminding him of the deal he had made.

_A deal with the devil. _Of course, it had been less of a deal and more in the area of blackmail, but whatever it had been, it had worked.

_One week._ He looked up at Dean, whose eyes were filled with nothing but concern and a bit of worried suspicion. He knew something was wrong, and wanted to help. That was what he always wanted to do. Sam couldn't bear to look at his face, knowing what he was going to do to him.

_It's time to make that week count, _he told himself.

**Author's Note: Okay, guys, review, please! Please please please! Tell me what your favorite part was, what you hated, etc. Tell me if anyone seems out-of-character or if you don't like where the plot is going. I always like to hear your feedback.**

**I don't know when I'll be able to update next. This weekend is going to be crazy. Tomorrow, my school is going to Disney, Saturday I have tickets to see the musical Jesus Christ Superstar and friend's party to go to, and Sunday I'm going to Next Big Thing 6. For those people who don't know what that is, it's a concert held in Florida by the radio station 97x, and it goes from 10 in the morning to 10 in the evening. They have a lot of major rock bands: 30 Seconds to Mars, Three Days Grace, Ok Go, Seether, Kill Hannah, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Taking Back Sunday, and My Chemical Romance, which is headlining. Plus, next week are some of my exams, so I won't have much of a chance to update. Luckily, I have at least 4 chapters ahead written, so all I have to do is post them. So next week will be the next update, and I apologize if it seems a little transition-y. Things are going to start picking up.**

**Until next time...**


	46. Air Hockey, Clown Movies, and Old Yeller

**Chapter 46: Air Hockey, Clown Movies, and Old Yeller**

_-Two Days Later- _

"That's it, Sam!" Dean said loudly, shooting the puck across the air-hockey table. People nearby turned around to see what the commotion was, but Dean gave them a death glare and they returned to minding their own business. Sam took the opportunity to score a point. "What the hell is going on?" Dean said in a lower voice as he retrieved the puck from the return slot.

"What?" Sam asked incredulously. He didn't think his behavior had been suspicious at all. He had been acting normally.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Dean asked, shooting the puck as hard as he could across the table. Sam blocked it with another one of those unnaturally fast movements of his. It pissed Dean off to no end. He had always been able to beat Sam, but ever since he had returned, all Sam's senses were on hyper drive. Dean made a mental note not to get in any more fights with this Sam; he had learned his lesson two months ago, the first time he had seen Sam for awhile. He technically would have won that fight if Sam hadn't cheated with his psychic powers, but still, Sam was vicious in a fight these days. He knew where to attack, how to leave marks for weeks.

"On occasion," Sam threw back, smiling. "And I don't know what you're talking about." Dean scored a goal, and Sam casually picked up a fry from his basket and popped it in his mouth. It was good, maybe a bit too greasy, but he didn't care. He was going to enjoy his last few days of freedom to the fullest. And, hey, if it clogged his arteries and made him die earlier than he should, all the better. Less time the demon would have him.

"You know _exactly _what I'm talking about," Dean said.

"What _are_ you talking about, Dean?" Dean leaned forward on the table, waiting for Sam to start the next round, his brow furrowed, as if he was searching for the right words.

"You're not yourself. You haven't been since Nora."

"I'm not depressed," Sam defended, putting the puck back into play.

"No, you're not," Dean agreed, shooting it back. "It's weirder than that. Depressed, I would expect, I would see coming, but this?"

"I'm _happy_," Sam said, not understanding, as he stopped the puck with his playing piece.

"Exactly!" Dean said. "You're happy." Sam shook his head, his smile carrying the message of 'what the hell are you smoking?'

"I thought that would be a good thing," he said.

"I thought so, too. It's like you're happy, but you're not." Once more, Sam shook his head.

"I'm doing the best I can, here. I'm trying." Dean nodded.

"You're trying," he agreed. "You're trying too hard. And it's freaking me out."

"So, what, for two days I can't be happy without you putting me on suicide watch?"

"I never said anything about thinking you were suicidal."

"But you _were_ thinking it, right?" Dean looked down, and Sam took his goal. The buzzer sounded; Sam had won the game. "This entire time, just because I smile and act friendlier, you assume that there's something wrong?"

"There's something you're not telling me. That's all I know."

"I'd tell you if there was something wrong," Sam said quietly, making way for the next people to take their game.

"What happened, Sam?" Dean asked as he came around the side of the table.

"Nothing," Sam said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. Somehow he knew he had just confirmed his brother's suspicions. "Nothing," he repeated, throwing away the empty basket of fries.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to," Sam said simply. "You just have to trust me."

"I'm worried about you," Dean said in a quick voice, as if he were ashamed of admitting his concern. He sped up, having to walk faster because of Sam's quick pace.

Sam snorted. "Like you've ever _not _been worried about me? You do realize you're more paranoid now than when I _was_ depressed?"

"I'm not paranoid; I just know you're a bad liar. I can see it in your eyes." He stepped around Sam to block his path. Sam took a deep breath, willing his face impassive. Dean looked directly into Sam's eyes. "Don't try to hide it, Sam. It just makes it more obvious."

"Please, Dean," Sam said. "Just drop it. I promise you, there's nothing wrong. I'm just..." he smiled "...I'm just glad to still be here, okay?" Sam had said the right thing, he could tell by Dean's face. Though he was trying to hide it, Dean had just caved. Sam was relieved; he really didn't want to tell Dean. It was best for him not to see it coming. It would be easier for the both of them. Well, not necessarily _easy, _but definitely the lesser of the two evils. And he would never let Dean know that he was going back for him. He would rather have him think he had finally snapped. He preferred Angry Dean to Hurt Dean. Overprotective Dean fell somewhere in between the two.

Dean nodded, like he didn't know what to say, and stepped aside. Sam continued walking, then at the last minute turned back. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to go see a movie or something?" Caught off guard, Dean's mouth opened a little in surprise.

"Since when do you like to go to the movies?" Sam shrugged.

"Since now. I think it'd be cool to go to one of those horror movies and laugh at all the things they got wrong."

"Shit, we haven't done that since we were in high school."

"Exactly. And we weren't going to head out until tomorrow morning anyway." Dean took one last scrutinizing look at Sam's face and nodded.

* * *

The movie turned out to be more fun than Dean had expected. It really had no plot whatsoever, as Dean had expected after seeing the trailer once on television while he was watching South Park. The movie revolved around a group of teenagers stuck in their school at night. 

"Ten bucks says the first one dies within five minutes," Dean speculated with a grin.

"Deal," Sam agreed as he watched the kids gather in the library on the screen.

_"I'm the only one that can fit through the window," a skinny blonde volunteered. "I can see if the doors will open from the outside." _

"And we have our first victim," Dean said. "Jesus, you'd think these kids were raised in a cave. Have they ever seen Scream? It? Friday the 13th? Do they even have _cable_?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the screen. "Says the guy who doesn't know who My Chemical Romance or Fallout Boy is."

"Hey," Dean snapped. "I don't listen to that New Age, punk, wannabe crap that only talks about sex and drugs."

"As opposed to the old punk wannabe crap that only talks about sex and drugs?"

"Ok, let's get one thing straight," Dean said matter-of-factly, ignoring the annoyed glances he was getting from the people around him for talking during the movie. "There are two things in this world of mine that you absolutely, totally will get your ass kicked for if you insult them." He counted them on his fingers. "My music and my car."

"Your car is gone. Totaled," Sam pointed out, and Dean flinched.

"Thanks to you." Sam grudgingly nodded, knowing it was better to let Dean blame him for that. He was just enjoying the company. "And she's not gone. Dad may have said she was totaled, but we all know that baby's got heart. I made some calls. I'm not giving up on her. She's been through worse."

"It was T-boned by a semi," Sam said. "What's worse than that?"

"Stop calling her 'it.' I'm not sending her out to the stable just yet."

"What?" Sam asked, uncomprehending.

"You've never seen Old Yeller?"

"Of course I have," Sam said, shaking his head, holding back silent laughs. "It's the shed. Old Yeller gets shot in the shed."

"Whatever," Dean said defensively. "The point is, I'm not just going to give up on it." Dean turned his attention back to the screen. Sam knew for a fact that Dean didn't like to be corrected. He would sulk for another ten minutes or so.

As it was, Dean only lasted two. "So, Sam..." he said. Sam didn't move his gaze from the screen where the blonde, so named Jennifer, crept through the darkness. "Are you okay about the whole Nora thing?" He had to try hard to keep his voice casual.

Sam still didn't look away. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, his voice casual, as if it couldn't matter less. Dean knew better, though.

"You really liked her, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yeah, I did," Sam said simply, and by his tone Dean could tell he wasn't getting more information on that subject. He knew how much Sam really had liked her, how much he had trusted her. It had been one more betrayal to add to his list.

"What about the--" he didn't finish his sentence, realizing the crowd "--the other thing? The one we talked about that night after the bar incident." Sam swallowed, and his face showed that he had finally broken through his calm exterior.

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it?" Sam said.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Well, since that night you haven't even mentioned it. I went along with it because I thought if I did bring it up you might get upset."

"I'm sorry," Dean said, a bit grudgingly.

"Don't be. You took it well. I mean,_ really_ well." Dean could see his brow furrow in the dim light of the theater. "Unnaturally well, in fact."

"No I didn't," Dean said. "I just didn't show it." Sam winced, and Dean immediately knew he had said the wrong thing. "I didn't mean--"

"It's alright," Sam said. "I don't blame you. I thought it was a little weird you didn't freak out. And I guess I should have known better. I just forgot that you hid those things. I understand. I just wish you'd let me know. I mean, I figured there was a reason you're kind of weird around me these days--"

"Just because I was upset doesn't mean I hate you. I could never hate you." Sam didn't respond, watching as Jennifer got viciously murdered. He checked his watch.

"Four minutes, ten seconds." Sam dug into his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill, and tossed it at Dean. The screen faded out to the killer's face, a mask contorted into the strange shape of a smiling clown. "Lamest cliché ever," he commented.

"Don't change the subject, Sam," Dean interjected.

"I think our clown was cooler."

"Sam, come on."

"I mean, _ours_ ate human flesh."

"Sam!" Dean hissed. A woman and her teenage son had turned around at the 'human flesh' comment. Sam smiled warmly, and she turned around with a simple 'shut up' glare. "We'll talk about this later," Dean muttered, all the same.

"I don't want to fight about this, Dean," Sam said with a tired look. "You don't want to talk about it. I get it."

"But I think you need to talk about this. You can't hold this in."

"What, are we switching roles or something? Now suddenly you're all 'let's_ talk_ about this, Sam.'"

"You're such a fucking drama queen, you know that?"

"I love you too, Dean," Sam added jokingly. Dean rolled his eyes.

"We'll talk about this later," he conceded, turning back to the movie. "Oh, here comes the next dumbass," he commented, changing the focus of the conversation.

Throughout the next forty-five minutes, a total of seven couples looked around in surprise at the two full-grown men laughing like teenagers while another boy, Jason, walked slowly through the library to find his friends. When everyone screamed as his head ripped off, they both laughed even harder at the blood squirted out the stump where his head should have been.

"Oh and here comes the next one," Sam said, referring to another girl who was possibly the worst actress he had ever seen in his entire life. "I actually thought she'd last until the end."

"No, she's more the annoying best friend. The friend will find her, and that will give her the will to survive or some shit like that--you're right. Our clown was cooler..." The next girl had just gotten stabbed in the back "...and more creative. Come on, what villain in any horror movie has found out how to kill someone with cotton candy? You gotta give Chuckles some credit in that respect."

"How many of them are left, anyway?"

"Six. There's a lot of murder to be had."

_"There's this legend…" one guy volunteered "…that there was this guy living in the school." _

"Oh, great, they're trying to give it a plot. The movie is now ruined for me." Sam chuckled again. There was something off with his eyes, but Dean was too glad to see it to care much. Well, at least, for that moment.

When the movie was nearing the end where the boyfriend of the main character and his brother both were murdered by the clown, one before the other, and when the second had tried to help, he had reached a similar end, Dean excused himself. The look on Sam's face wasn't amused anymore. For the first time he didn't seem to be paying attention to the movie. Dean didn't bring up how scared that made him; it was just a small detail, but it scared the hell out of him. There was something wrong.

"I'm just going to…" Dean started, but Sam just nodded, not seeming to really pay attention to what Dean was saying.

Dean slid past the other people, half of which glared at him; apparently, more people had heard their comments on the movie than he had thought. He burst out into the dim light of the movie theater's lobby, leaning against the wall. He took a deep breath, thinking. There was something wrong with Sam. That he could tell. But hadn't there always been something wrong with Sam? Dean couldn't expect him to bounce back_ that_ easily.

But still, this had to be different. He could see it in Sam's eyes, and in the way he acted. He got the dreams more and more often, and they were getting even worse. These were beyond nightmares; these were night terrors. It took everything Dean had not to jump out of bed and comfort Sam like he had when they were kids. Naturally, that sort of response didn't come easily to him. The entire idea of the sweet, brotherly moment almost made him want to puke. He didn't want Sam to think of himself as weak, as a child that needed to be comforted, either. And plus, if he had gotten up, it would have given away the fact that Dean was probably getting less sleep than Sam due to the fact that he was up every night waiting for the moment where Sam would start tossing and turning, muttering to himself and breathing as if he was in the most terrifying nightmare imaginable.

And that brought up a serious problem. What if they weren't just dreams? What if they were visions or something like that and Sam hadn't wanted to tell Dean? Honestly, Dean couldn't think of anything Sam would be more afraid to tell Dean than the fact that he had seen him die, but Sam had gotten_ those_ words out perfectly. So it couldn't be_ that_ bad.

Could it?

"Fuck," Dean spat, kicking the wall across from him. One thing was for sure: something was wrong. Sam needed help, and Dean wasn't doing any good anymore.

And as much as he hated it, he needed backup. He dug his cell phone out from his pocket and flipped it open. He stared at it a second, wondering. What he was about to could just make things worse. But it could also help things a whole lot.

Dean had done enough hesitating in his life. He needed to do this. So he dialed.

_Probably won't even pick up anyway, _Dean comforted himself, becoming more unsure of his plan every second. On the second ring, he almost hung up. On the fourth, he closed his eyes in defeat and reached for the 'cancel' button. But just at that second, a voice came through the receiver.

"Dean?"

**Author's Note: Sorry if this seemed a little like a transition chapter and it's not my best work, I'll admit, but it needed to be there. Oh, and I'm also sorry it took so long for me to update. Like I said last time, it's been really hectic. It might be like that for awhile more. I just haven't had much time to write, and I like to write at least five chapters ahead of where I am, and I'm only three ahead, so I'm out of my comfort-range. Anyway... the good thing is that since I don't know where to cut the chapter that well, they'll be a bit longer than usual. Or I could cut them a bit shorter that usual, in which case I can get them out a bit quicker. It's up to you guys. Tell me in your review which you prefer.**

**Oh, and if you don't know who it was that Dean called at the end, no offense or anything, you must be having a really long day. I mean, there aren't many options. About three, actually. And seriously, who would bring in the most drama and fuck things up the most. Oh, and that flashback is coming up soon, so guess who.**

**Up Next: As the week continues, Sam reflects on the past, and wonders if he really is making the right choice.**

**Until next time...**


	47. Breathe

**Chapter 47: Breathe**

Three days later Sam left the hotel room for the first time in three weeks. Dean was wide awake when it happened. Sam didn't even bother to grab a jacket or anything like he usually did. He just walked straight out of the room.

And for the first time ever, Dean managed to follow him.

It had been something he was curious about for awhile. Although it was really none of his business, maybe if he found out what Sam was doing in his 'spare time' he could understand what was wrong with him.

Sam didn't even take the car. He continued walking past the border of the motel, ambling away from town instead of toward it.

_Well, _Dean thought, _that rules out most of the innocent possibilities._

Sam continued at a normal pace, occasionally stopping for a few seconds at a time, running a hand through his hair nervously and taking deep breaths in a vain attempt to calm himself down. Dean thought about calling out to him, but decided he wouldn't give Sam the chance to lie about where he was going.

* * *

_Breathe, Sam. Breathe, _Sam reminded himself. He willed his body to calm, for the churning of his mind to stop. He could hear the blood pulsing through his veins in a steady beat, like drums rythmically thudding in a marching band. 

He needed out. He needed escape from his own mind. He needed to breathe freely again without having to force his chest to move every time. He needed to get out of here. He needed to think.

_Breathe, _he repeated. _Calm down. You won't make it like this. You won't make it in time to get to them. If you keep doing this, you're going to kill yourself._

_Well, that's an idea._

No. He needed to think. He needed fresh air. Even though he was outside, the air cool, it felt stale, thick. His legs wouldn't support the rest of his body. His head grew cloudy from air-loss. He was shaking from head to toe, more terrified than he had ever been.

_I'm going back to them._

Just thinking it made his stomach clench, and he lurched forward, stomach heaving. Still, he kept walking.

_Stop._

He couldn't. Not now. Not when his brain was focused on so much else. Not when the panic was swelling inside him, threatening to make him insane. He needed release. He needed to get out.

He needed to breathe.

How did you do that again? His chest moved in an irregular rhythm, every movement his lungs made causing pain, as if they had forgotten long ago how to take oxygen in.

_Breathe._

His foot hit something, and he stumbled. That didn't stop him. As long as he could put one foot in front of the other, as long as he could keep that regularity, that rhythm, he would be fine.

_I can't do this._

_Yes, you can. You have to._

He was suffocating. The panic continued to rise in his chest, stifling what hopes calming himself he had.

What was that behind him? Had he heard something behind him, or was that just his nerves, his intense paranoia? Had he seen a human figure, or was that just a spot in his vision, one of the many he was beginning to see from air loss?

_Sam, **stop**, _a voice in his head reminded. _You have to calm down. You still have two days._

_Two days left for Dean to figure out that I'm going to betray him._

_You're not betraying him. You're saving him._

_Same thing, _he thought bitterly.

Sam kept walking, trying to ignore the voices of truth. Not that it was easy, but after trying so hard for so long, he found he could shut himself off, retreat to the tiny bit of his mind he still had control over. But even then he wasn't safe from the one tiny voice in the back of his head, the one that didn't even belong to him, the one that woke him up every night in a cold sweat, terrified of the shadows.

Suffocating him.

_No, _Sam corrected himself. _Drowning. _That was the phrase had used to explain it to Dean, back when his brother hadn't known a bit of the terror Sam was trapped in. Terror didn't even begin to explain it. Sam didn't know how he was still alive, how terror this intense couldn't kill a human. He was coming apart at the seams, and nothing was going to stop that. All he had to do was keep the pieces together for two more days. Then it wouldn't matter anyway.

_Stop thinking like that, _he told himself.

_Why can't you shut up for five minutes and let me panic, okay?_

This was the one chance he had, the only time of day when he didn't have Dean watching his every move. This was the only time he had to let the waves wash over him, to let himself stay under the water without thrashing wildly to get to the surface that could be any which way. There was no light anywhere to guide him, there was no sign of life where he was. Nobody else had been drowning like this before.

Well, none that had gotten out alive, anyway.

Sam collapsed to the ground, laying back on the damp grass. Thank god there had been a clearing somewhere, and thank god nobody would be able to find him here. He closed his eyes, willing the tenseness of his body away.

_Breathe._

Slowly, he drew the air through his nostrils in a purposefully slow motion, letting the new oxygen spread throughout his body, letting the wheels in his mind keep turning. Then he let the breath out, his entire body shuddering as he kept blowing it out though there was nothing left in his lungs. He repeated the sequence, forcing himself to concentrate on merely that, the breathing and nothing else. Still, the voice pressed through.

_This isn't what you want, is it?_

_Breathe in, _he reminded himself.

_They can help you. You can go back. It's so easy._

_Breathe out, _he persisted, but then a different voice burst through. It was human, though barely recognizeable as such.

_"How long can you keep your family safe?"_

_"As long as I have to."_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, to keep away the barrage of images that he knew were seconds away from assaulting his eyes. The memories were too painful for him to relive again, and he clutched desperately at anything else. Anything that would distract him.

_"You're going to relive it again, Sam, all over again,"_ the demon's voice taunted, and Sam shut his lids even tighter, so much that it hurt, hoping that the yellow eyes before him would go away. They didn't, staring back at him unblinkingly. "_It's all for Dean, remember? You're throwing away your life, as you would put it, for him."_

That was the moment the other voice chose to pipe up._ Why? Why do you even bother? You remember what he said to you. You remember how he told you he didn't care anymore. Why do you insist on sacrificing youself for a family that won't even miss you when you're gone?_

"Shut up," he muttered to himself, and it was at that moment that he knew the voices had won over him. He had listened to them.

_Dean's made it perfectly clear over the years that he won't care when you're gone. You weren't lying that night when you left for college. He really_ doesn't _care._

_What I said was wrong, and I know it,_ the other voice responded.

_Does that justify what he said to you? Don't pretend like the things he said weren't so much worse than what you did._

_He was mad. He didn't know what he was saying._

_Are you really in that strong of denial?_

_I know he didn't mean it. He just wanted to hurt me._

_And it worked, didn't it? Better than he'll ever know, am I right?_

_He didn't mean it. I'm not mad at him for it._

_Then why didn't you call him?_

_Well, _he thought without feeling, _that's the million dollar question, isn't it?_

"Sam," a voice from behind him said, and he instinctively reached for the Colt, which he always brought with him, just in case. In a flash, he was in a crouching position, the gun positioned so that the aim would be dead on, right between the figure's eyes. "Whoa," the man said, and Sam relaxed suddenly, letting out a deep breath as he dropped his head into one of his hands.

"Dean," he whispered through his fingers. "You followed me?"

"Uh..." Dean said nervously. "Yeah, I did. I just thought..."

"You thought I was doing something sinister? Communicating with the demon? Betraying you? Or did you think I couldn't be left alone because I might kill myself?"

_Well, three out of four._

"No," Dean defended quickly. I just thought...well, maybe, yeah. I just thought I should check on you. Make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," Sam said abruptly.

_Go away, Dean. Just leave me alone. Please._

"So," Dean said awkwardly, looking as if he were trying to decide whether to sit down or not, "this is what you do every night. This is where you come."

_Leave, Dean. Get away from me. I don't want to see you now._

Sam didn't need this. Dean being there was just bringing more memories up, one after the other, of that night especially. As Dean stared at Sam, all the youngest Winchester could see was his brother's furious but hurt expression as he yelled at Sam, for once not holding back any of his bad thoughts, his buried-deep anger. Sam couldn't even begin to imagine what his own face must have looked like, but as bad as he had looked, as hurt as he had looked, it hadn't stopped Dean from driving the stake even further.

_You deserved it._

"Yeah," he agreed, to both statements. "This is where I come. Not this exact spot, but anywhere I can get..." he trailed off, remembering that Dean didn't need any more information than was necessary "...away."

Dean nodded, then looked uncertainly at the ground next to Sam, and lowered himself down, seating himself about a foot away from Sam. "Sometimes it's good to get away from things. From life in general."

"Sometimes I just need to be _alone_," Sam prodded, hoping he was getting his point across.

Apparently, he wasn't.

Sam blew out a deep breath, hiding his frustration as he leaned back on his elbows, closing his eyes.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asked.

"I'm fine," Sam breathed, opening his eyes. It was a nice night out, the clouds all gone, the stars shinging brightly.

"So why'd you choose here? Why do you just...sit out here?" Dean had mirrored Sam's posture, staring up at the same place. Sam thought over his answer for a second, trying to pretend he was alone for a moment, attempting to forget the events of that night. To forget what was going to happen to him once he left. How Dean would be angry when he found his brother missing again. To forget how hurt he would be if he found out why Sam had left.

In short, trying to imagine Hell frozen over.

"It makes me feel small. Insignifigant," was Sam's simple answer. Dean raised an eyebrow, not understanding.

"I would think that would be a bad thing."

"Not really. I like it, because when I feel small and insignifigant and unimportant, like I have no place in this world, it helps me realize that no matter who looks up there, whether they're someone like me or the demon, everyone can't help but feel the same way. And if someone like him can feel that way, can feel unimportant at some point, then maybe I have a chance. Maybe we're all not so different after all." He looked over at Dean, once more trying to get him to go away wordlessly.

_What am I doing? Didn't I say I wanted to spend my last days with him?_

_Not like this._

Dean turned his head toward Sam, on the verge of making a smartass comment, but holding it back in a way that made it look like it physically hurt to do so. Still, he remained silent, smiling slightly. He knew something was wrong; it showed in his eyes. Dean swallowed, once more looking like he was about to say something. He couldn't hold it back anymore.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"For what?"

"I'm sorry that you had to go through this. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you. I wasn't there, I don't understand, I never will, yes. I get that. I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry. " Dean pushed himself up, a defeated look on his face, though why Sam couldn't tell. "I should go."

_Not like this._

He couldn't do this. He couldn't pretend anymore. He couldn't be somebody he wasn't anymore. He couldn't betray Dean like this. Not again.

_"They broke your heart that night, and you know you've just been waiting for that moment to pay them back for the things they said to you. You want them to be sorry for it."_

"Dean," Sam choked out, and his brother turned. Sam's stomach clenched. He had Dean's full attention. He could tell him everything. He could let Dean try to help him. "I..."

The words died in his throat. All that escaped was air. He couldn't say it. He couldn't hurt Dean. Not like Dean had hurt him.

_It was my fault he said those things anyway. I provoked him._

_He shouldn't have said them._

_He had a right after all the years of putting up with me._

"I just can't believe what we got outselves into," Sam said instead. Dean smiled.

"Yeah, I know the feeling." And with that, the mood lightened. Dean sat back down again, leaning back on the grass to look at the sky. He looked over at Sam, only to see that his eyes were closed, his face peaceful for the first time in a very long time. There was still something off, though, something forced about it. "So..." Dean said, breaking the silence. Sam smiled slightly.

"So..." he echoed.

"This last week has been..." Dean couldn't think of the words.

"Strange?" Sam finished.

"Yeah. You just seem so...different. Like there's some big change in you."

"I told you, I'm sick of being weak, depressed. I want to enjoy this." If only Dean could have known at that moment what Sam meant. Maybe then things would have turned out so different for them. Things wouldn't have had to end in tragedy.

"You know, I'm really not trying to be an asshole about this," Dean said in a quiet voice.

"I know," Sam replied simply.

"I mean, you just being here means a lot. When you were gone..." Sam's half-smile disappeared.

"I get it," he said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. He added another smile back, more fake this time. "I know. I missed you, too. Now, don't go all touchy-feely. You're not that person. You never will be."

Dean winced at the memory those words brought back. "You're never going to forgive me for that, are you?"

"I don't want to talk about that. Not here. Not now."

_I won't get the chance later anyway, _he added mentally.

He needed to change the subject. And fast.

"You know, I can remember part of what I said that night when you got me drunk," he said quickly, speaking the first words that came out of his mouth.

"Really?" Dean said, trying to be casual about it.

"I said I wasn't going to let you die, didn't I? I said no matter what the cost."

"Yeah, you did."

"I just wish I knew how," Sam said.

"Um...cryptic much?"

"I just hate these visions," Sam said suddenly. "I hate not knowing what they mean, or when they're going to happen, or where."

"Maybe it wasn't what it seemed," Dean offered. "Maybe it wasn't even me."

"It was you," Sam said matter-of-factly.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean said sarcastically. "That makes me feel so much better."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "But I've already thought it through. I've gone through that. Up until that night when I had the full vision, I'd been having dreams, more rough at first, like I did with Jess. I couldn't tell what was going on, but now it makes sense. Slowly it got clearer and clearer. I thought it was going to be me that died for awhile. And I was freaked out. I'd never seen myself die before. But in a way, that was better than this." Dean didn't warrant that statement an answer.

"Well, maybe," he said instead, "we already stopped it."

"Dean, you know--"

"No, listen to me. Most of your visions come true within a few days anyway. It's been five, and nothing's happened. Maybe by just telling me, we avoided it. And even if we haven't, why do we keep bringing it up anyway? If it's going to happen, it's going to happen. So I think we should just forget about it, and I'm going to keep living. We should just enjoy the time we have left."

Sam closed his eyes, his mouth opening but not yeilding to speech just yet. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself to make sure he wouldn't give himself away.

"God," he said, trying to sound casual, "turning soft there, Dean?" Dean punched him on the shoulder. "Seriously, the Dean I know would never go into the 'touchy-feely shit.'"

"It's not touchy-feely," Dean defended.

"Yes, it is."

"Whatever, dude," Dean said. Sam forced out a laugh. "But you're not one to be talking. You're the worst liar ever."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "I am." He closed his eyes once more, trying to make his body relax. "You know my guidance counselor in high school said I should have been an actor?"

"That's bullshit. We all know it's boring and pretty useless. Those kids in that movie were a pretty good indication. Except for that Angeline Jolie..." he whistled.

"You're not very likely to be killed in show buisness."

"Yes, but remember: you can't act your way out of a paper bag." Sam rolled his eyes, getting to his feet.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No," Sam said. "I'm starving. Let's go get some food."

It was a total lie, of course. But he had gotten Dean to smile. Even that felt like an accomplishment. That was what he needed that week to be like.

The trip was short and only somewhat awkward. They both seemed comfortable merely staying silent in each other's company. It was a mutual agreement, though the fact remained silent like everything else. There were so many things that didn't need to be put into words with them.

The only place that was open was the tiny cafe next to the hotel that served food that tasted like it had been warmed up in a microwave one too many times. Sam set his sights on the booth in the corner, his stomach already trying to empty itself at the smell of food. He choked it down with effort. Dean's attention was on something else anyway. His eyes rested on something to Sam's direct right, his gaze surprised and more than a bit wary. He chanced a nervous glance at Sam.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "I should have told you..." Sam turned around, and froze, the almost-smile sliding off his face.

_Oh, god. Just what I really don't need._

"Hey, Sam," the man from the booth two tables away said, standing up, smiling weakly as he looked Sam up and down.

"Dad..." Sam said, trying to hide his dismay. If Dean didn't sense what was wrong, John sure would.

_Oh, shit._

**_Author's Note: _So, for once, I don't know what to say in this note. Weird.**

**Um...once more, sorry for the delay. There will probably be a bit more, because I need to catch up on a few chapters. I lost a lot of time to exams. Anyway, it totally messed up my writing schedule, and I'm behind where I had planned on getting to. I keep adding stuff on these chapters. In three chapters, I added so much that it's now at 6,000 words. The only chapter I've had that long is the chapter 'Not You'. But luckily, I'll be able to catch up. Thank god for Winter Break! The only thing I have planned for the next five days is going to see Eragon with my friends.**

**Up Next: Loaded with flashbacks to the night Sam left for college, Sam and John have their own current-day confrontation after Sam forces John to make a costly promise. John has to decide which of his sons to betray.**

**Until next time...**


	48. Don't Come Back

**Chapter 48: Don't Come Back**

**-Five Years Ago-**

"You do realize that most parents would be happy at this news?" Sam stated.

"You want to be a lawyer?" John repeated, raising his voice for the hundredth time. Sam shifted impatiently, his own temper flaring. He rolled his eyes.

"Haven't we gone over this already, five hundred times? I want to do this, dad."

"This is what you want to do? You want to just throw your life away?"

"Oh, right," Sam said sarcastically, shaking his head angrily, backing away as his father started to advance around the kitchen table at him. "_I'm_ throwing my life away. I actually want to do something with my life, and suddenly_ I'm _a failure. It figures. It just figures!"

"That is not where you belong. It's not what you're supposed to do."

"What_ am_ I supposed to do, dad?" he asked, his voice raising a pitch until is sounded near hysterical. He'd never yelled at his father like this. He'd never been this angry before in his entire life. He'd never had the courage. But he wanted this, more than anytyhing. He needed to get out before it was too late. His hands were shaking, but the adrenaline stopped him from thinking before he spoke. All of the rage, the pent up frustration that he had kept under the surface for all those years was boiling over. "Where _do _I belong, dad? I don't _have_ a home. We live out of hotel rooms and other people's houses. How long is this one going to last? I can't make friends because I know we're going to leave within a few weeks; I'm constantly working to keep up in school. It's a miracle I even _got in_ to Stanford. Is it so wrong for me to want to do something more than that?"

"Yes, it is! This is your life, Sam! It's here, with us. With your brother and I!"

"Since when did I ever get a say in that? Did you ever ask me what I wanted? You already decided what I was going to do for the rest of my life when I was six months old!"

"I am your father!" John yelled, and Sam let out a bark of humorless laughter.

"Oh, that's a good one," Sam retorted. "Since when have you taken that responsibility? Since when have you _ever_ treated me like a son?"

"I have the responsibility to keep you safe, to make sure you don't make decisions that ruin your life!"

"You can't make decisions like that for other people when you can't even make them for yourself!" That one ticked John off. He paused for a moment, and Sam knew he had crossed a line.

"What did you say to me?" he asked in an icy voice. Sam knew that tone. He knew that if he didn't shut up really soon, he was going to do some serious damage. Yet the logical part of his brain was gone; the part that was in control wanted to go. It wanted to do something about his life. John was just standing in the way. It was that part that told him not to be quiet right then and there.

"What have you ever done that's for someone other than yourself? Other than this whole revenge thing?"

"I did this for our family! To keep you safe!"

"Right, because we're _so _safe right now!" Sam yelled sarcastically. "You've been such a_ great_ father over the years! You've done a wonderful job being there for me through thick and thin, haven't you?"

"What did you expect me to--"

"I expected you to be a father for once in your god damned life! Is that too much for me to ask for?"

"I am a father, and just because this demon came along and caused this--"

"Don't even blame it on the demon, dad!" Sam continued, cutting him off. "I hate the son of a bitch, I do, but it's_ you_ that was the drill sergeant. It was you that _wasn't there_ when I almost died on my first hunt. It was _you_ that ruined my life, not the demon. You've done a lot more damage than he has." John reached forward and grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt roughly, his face red with anger. Sam didn't back down.

"Don't you_ ever_," John snarled, "say that again, do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you," Sam replied cooly, pulling himself away from his father's grasp. He turned to go, but a strong hand on his arm stopped him.

"You can't do this, Sam," John said. It was an order, one not meant to be denied.

Sam swallowed, taking a deep breath before turning back. "Dad, I can't do this anymore," he said simply. "I can't be like you and Dean. I can't live this life; I can't be a part of this anymore."

"So you're just giving up on us, is that it?" John asked in a condescending voice. "Like we don't have dreams, too, Sam. Like I never wanted to do something with my life."

"You had the chance to!" Sam retorted desperately. "You had a choice! You had_ years_ to do what you wanted with life until mom died! You had your chance at normal, and you left it! I want _my _chance, dad. I want to choose what_ I_ want to do with my life."

"Sometimes sacrifices have to be made," John argued.

"That's me, I guess. The sacrifice. If it comes down to it, that's all I am, isn't it? I'm a toy, a soldier, to be thrown away when I can't help you anymore?"

"That's not what I said."

"Never mind, dad. I get it. I get that revenge is so important to you. More important than life itself. More important than me." John protested, but Sam cut him off. "But it's your life, not mine. I don't want to die like this." John flinched.

"You think this is going to solve all your problems?" John asked, shaking his head in obvious disapproval. "Running away won't change anything. You can't hide from what you are. You can't abandon your family like this--"

"I'm not _abandoning_ anyone!"

"You're an arrogant son of a bitch, you know that? You think everything is centered around you, that nobody else matters. You've always been that way, ever since you were a kid, and you _always_ will be. You're never going to change. You're always going to be that little kid that wants attention, for someone to hold him when he cries and tell him everything's going to be okay."

"Sometimes we all feel that way, and you would know that if you had a shred of humanity left in you, you cold, heartless bastard."

"You know what humanity is? _This_ is humanity! This is the real world, Sam! It's not a pretty place, and you never accepted that. You always wanted to believe that there was good in everything, that your emotions would solve anything. You never learned to distance yourself."

"That's a good quality; that's what makes me different than you."

"That's what makes you weak. To survive among these things, you have to forget about those things. You have to become someone else."

"Maybe I don't want to be someone else! Maybe I want to be me! Maybe I don't want to be like you and Dean, not caring about anything, not showing your emotions, not even caring about you or anyone else."

"You can't just forget everything I've taught you over the years. You can't just forget that Dean and I exist."

"Hey, Dean forgot about me a long time ago anyway," Sam said. "He's never cared about me, and you know it. It's all been about you, for as long as I can remember. 'Can I do this for you, dad? Can I help you, dad? Need anything, dad?' He wasn't even there when I graduated, because he had to help you with the poltergeist problem."

"Do you realize how many lives we saved then?"

"And then afterwards you went out to celebrate, while I held on to a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, you both would pull through that time."

"Since when did we bring Dean into this?"

"Since _you _brought it up. Dean is just---"

"Don't start, Sam. If you say one more word about him, I swear to god--"

"You'll do what? Hit me? Go ahead, take your shot. I know you've just been waiting for it." He shrugged his shoulders, waiting. John just shook his head.

"If your mother could see--"

"Yeah. She's disappointed in me," Sam replied quietly, scathingly. "She would have_ wanted_ me to die like this."

"She would have wanted you to stay!"

"We don't know that!" Sam yelled. "We don't know what she would have wanted because she's dead and you've never forgiven me for it!" He stopped, breathing heavily. He'd been waiting years to say that. John looked a mix of angry and surprised.

"I was never angry at you for--"

"It's always been my fault! It's my fault that mom is dead, right? That's what you think? Because it happened in my room, you think it's my fault, and you've never gotten over that idea. It's stuck in your mind all these years, hasn't it?"

"What happened to your mother is in no way your fault."

"You say that, dad," Sam said. "But do you really mean it?" John stayed silent. "I can never do anything right! I try, and I try, and I try to do what you want me to do, but I can't! I can't follow this 'what mom would have wanted' thing, because it's bullshit, and you know it! You've been following it for years, trying to make it up to her that you weren't there to save her! But you can't admit that! It's suddenly my fault, isn't it? Because you want to blame it on someone else. You needed someone to hate, and that was _me_. How do you think mom would have felt about that? Would she be proud of _you_ right now?" John was so mad now he was shaking, but it didn't stop Sam.

"You're acting like you would know what she wanted, like you know that she would hate me for this. The truth is, dad, she's dead. And when someone's dead, they don't come back to tell you what to do. They're gone, and they don't come back. They never will, and you need to own up to that. You need to get over it and move on with your life. You can't keep living your life on what mom would have wanted. We don't know what mom would have wanted because she's _dead_!"

That was when John hit him. Sam could see it coming a mile away, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch as he felt the fist make contact with his face. He stayed on the ground for a second, holding his jaw and staring at the floor.

"Well," he said quietly, "that felt good, didn't it, dad?" He looked up at his father, and caught no trace of remorse in his face. "I've had it coming for years, right? And to think, as hard as I tried, I was never good enough for you and Dean." He smiled without humor, shaking his head in defeat. "Was I?" John dropped his head, as if he couldn't stand to look at his youngest son. "Was I?" Sam repeated, louder, and John flinched. "I thought not."

"If you're going to go, Sam," John replied in a forceably even tone, "don't _ever_ plan on coming back."

"I figured," Sam said sourly, and he felt the first pang of despair. Had he honestly thought this would make his father accept him? He hadn't realized how naiive he had been. He pulled himself up and started toward the front door, his belongings already over at a friend's house.

"What about Dean?" John asked. Sam snorted.

"What _about_ him?"

"You're just going to leave him behind?" Sam turned around to face his dad, taking a few steps toward him.

"It's not like he cares. He's made it clear over the past few years that you're _so_ much more important to him than me. It's not the same as when we were kids; he doesn't even try anymore. Sure, he'll stop the occasional spirit from killing me, but it just makes me wonder if all that training you've put him through will really pay off in the end. Maybe when I leave and you finally tell him that you sent me away for good, he won't care, just like you told him not to. Just like a good little lap dog."

"He cares about you. You know it, Sam. You know how worried he is about you, how much he checks on you all the time to make sure everything's okay."

"Does he? Really?" Sam said in an angry voice. "Do you know how many times I've gotten into fights over him? Guys at school that don't like him, and decide that since they can't kick his ass, then they have to go after me because I'm his little brother and that'll piss him off just as much. It never works, dad. When they brought him into the office that day, he said 'congratulations,' like it was something to be proud of that I got into a fight. I didn't even have to lie about why it happened, because you and he never even asked me why I came home with a black eye every few weeks."

"Sam--" John started angrily, but Sam cut him off.

"Would it be better if I just left now, before I can corrupt your golden boy?"

"Sam, stop it--"

"You know what, tell him anything you want. Tell him I'm at college, I ran away, I went crazy and you had to have me shipped off to an asylum, I killed myself, I don't care. Nothing I say will get through to him anymore. He stopped listening to anything I had to say a long time ago. He won't miss me when I'm gone. You've made it perfectly clear that you want to distance yourselves from everyone. I guess that includes me. Both of you have gone to extensive lengths to make sure I'm fully out of your lives. I was never part of your little club. I got that. I was never the good son; I got that, too. I accepted it. It just would have been nice if you had actually raised Dean to believe that human emotion can be allowed to break through to the surface"

It was then, in his father's eyes, that he realized what he had said. What he had done. The horror creeped up inside him, and it only got worse when he followed his father's eyes, turning around and closing his eyes in defeat, not wanting to see the expression on his brother's face as he stood in the doorway. How long had he been standing there?

"I'm guessing..." Dean said in a forcefully calm voice "...that I wasn't supposed to hear that."

Long enough, apparently.

* * *

**-Now-**

"Dad..." Sam started, but the words got choked in his throat. John smiled again stepped forward. Sam took an involuntary step back.

"You lied to me," he said to Dean.

"Yeah, and I feel bad about it," Dean said, though his tone gave away no sense of remorse.

"So," John said, "what have I missed?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

* * *

Dean was very careful with his words around John, especially in Sam's prescence. There were some things that he knew John was not supposed to hear. What exactly those things were tended to be a mystery. 

Dean found himself fascinated by Sam's sudden change. His brother suddenly seemed to have decided he was going to try especially hard around John to act like he was fine. He was trying harder than he had ever tried with Dean, and it was working.

"Are you okay, though?" John asked tentatively to Sam, currently perched on the edge of Dean's hotel bed.

Sam grinned in response, adding a bonus twinkle in his eye. "Sure," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?" John's eyes bored into Sam's face, inspecting it for any sign that he was lying. Within seconds, Dean could tell his verdict. He was on to Sam.

"Dean," John said in an even tone, "would you give your brother and I some time alone, please?" His eyes still didn't leave the youngest Winchester's face, where the worry was starting to show, his lips parted slightly, his eyes calculating.

"Of course," Dean said, taking a few steps backwards to the door. He threw a glance towards his father, an 'I'm counting on you, dad,' look, and opened the door, closing it softly behind him.

* * *

"Cut the crap, Sam," John said brusquely the second he heard the click of the door snapping shut. 

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, trying to salvage what left he had of his charade.

"I've been able to tell when you're lying since you were three years old. I can tell something's wrong. I need you to tell me what it is."

"Of course there's something wrong," Sam said, shaking his head. "How long did you think it was going to take me to bounce back from something like that? I had my mind butchered by a demon. It almost killed me. It's not an easy thing."

"What is it you're not telling me?" John asked in a commanding tone.

"So, what, I'm not allowed to have secrets now?"

"Not when it's a matter of life and death, Sam! And after what you pulled--"

"What did I pull, dad?" Sam asked angrily. "What have I done to deserve this sudden burst of concern from you?"

John blinked. "I think it officially became my business when you tried to slit your wrists. Dean told me you tried to kill yourself." The blood drained from Sam's face. He froze, his mouth dropping open.

"I told him not to tell you that," he said quietly.

"He asked me not to bring it up, but he thought it was something I needed to know. I think so, too. I think it's something I _should_ know and _deserve_ to know."

"That was something I trusted him with," Sam said angrily. "He figured it out, I told him why I did it, and I thought he understood why--"

"Why, what, Sam? Why you tried to end your life? Don't you think that's something you could have brought up during that entire time I was with you in the hospital? When that doctor asked me if you would ever do something like that time after time, I kept saying, 'No. There's a mistake. My son would never be as_ stupid_ as to think he could end his life--'"

"I did what I thought was right! I did the thing I thought would help all of us. I was desperate, and I knew there was a very slim chance I would survive anyway. I cut my losses--"

"Cut your losses?" John yelled. "This is not a game, Sam! Your life is not a game!"

"To them it is!" Sam retorted. "That's _all_ I am to them. A game. And I had to play by their rules or they were going to kill everyone I cared about. You would have done the same."

"No, I wouldn't have. I would have thought things rationally through--"

"That's what I did, dad! It wasn't a spur of the moment thing. I didn't just wake up one morning and say, 'Hey, how about I kill myself today?' They knew where Dean was, exactly, and they had someone there, ready to kill him at any second unless I cooperated. I had to chose; my life or his. I chose his." Sam dropped his head slightly. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same, too. You would have done anything to save him."

"There surely had to be some other options."

"No, dad," Sam said, his voice choked, not sure what situation he was talking about anymore. "There weren't any other options." He bit his lip against the frustrated tears, taking a deep breath before looking at his father again. For once, John looked understanding, sympathetic.

Sam had an idea. "They're good, dad," he said. "Really good. They manipulate people, blackmail people so they have no other choice but to cooperate. They'll do anything to get me back." John raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic, but Sam had his attention. He was composed, though soon he was going to look like a madman. Right then, he was pretty sure he was insane. He must have been to think this was going to work. And was it really worth the risk if it didn't? This was the time to pull out, if there was any. But no, something inside him wanted his father not to think he was weak, that he was irrational. He wanted to explain himself.

"Do you understand what I had to do?" Sam asked in a whisper, afraid that Dean maybe was listening in.

"I'm not saying it was the right choice--"

"Do. You. Understand?" Sam repeated, and John raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in Sam's demeanor. He was scared; that was obvious. Sam definitely looked crazy. Sam wondered humorlessly what he was going to think once he told John what he needed from him.

"Yes," John repeated.

"Do you really?" Sam said again, and John looked at him curiously. "Do you really understand that sometimes you have to make tough decisions, that you have to separate yourself, give up something you care about to save something else?" John's eyebrows raised, his expression troubled.

"Sam, what are you saying?"

"What I'm saying..." Sam said, taking a deep breath, about to take the leap of faith, hoping to god that John would understand; if he didn't, then it would make things worse. "What I'm saying is that I need your help. And if you agree to this, then Dean will probably hate you forever. But he'll live. And I know you're not going to like it, but you have to trust me."

"Sam, you're scaring me."

"I'm asking you to make a big decision here."

"What are you doing?" John's eyes were widening, the worry in his eyes reaching the panic level.

"I need you to decide what the worse idea is: losing one of your sons, or both of them."

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

"Dean," Sam said quietly, apologizing silently. Dean just stood there, his mouth slightly parted, staring ahead of him, as if making a decision. Sam couldn't tell if he looked angry, hurt, or just uncaring.

Without a word, Dean simply turned on his heel, walking back to where Sam knew his room was.

"Dean, wait!" he called in vain, following behind. He kicked himself mentally for being so stupid. He hadn't meant any of the things he'd said; he had said it to hurt John, not Dean. "Come on, Dean! Stop!"

Dean paused in his doorway for a second, turning back to Sam expectantly. Taking a deep breath, Sam started forward to his brother.

The door slammed in his face.

"Dean!"

* * *

**-Now-**

"What?"

"I need you to help me."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, his voice louder as he got up from his seat to kneel down in front of where Sam was sitting, looking him directly in the eyes, as if trying to convince himself that this really wasn't a joke.

"I'm talking..." Sam closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at John anymore "...about saving your favorite son's life. They're going to kill him, and they're going to make me do it. I have to go back, one way or the other, but if you help me, I can get away without him knowing. He doesn't have to find out what really happened."

"I can't do this, Sam."

"Fine," Sam said in a matter-of-fact tone, pulling away, shaking his head to try and stop the tears filling his eyes. "I'll do it myself. I have to leave tonight. There are no decent cars in town, so I'll have to take a crappy one as far as I can, and then catch a bus from there."

"Sam," John said in a hoarse voice, reaching up to grab each side of Sam's face roughly, forcing his youngest son to look at him. "_What_ are you talking about?" Sam's face crumpled for a split second, the tears swelling up in his eyes. This had been a mistake, a big one. But he needed John to accept him, to know that he hadn't left just because he had snapped and run off. He couldn't stand John being disappointed with him. Not in the end.

"I need your help, dad," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I'm asking you, but I have to. I'm sorry I'm running off again. I know mom wouldn't be proud of me right now. But I can't let him die. He doesn't even know."

"Why are you coming to me, of all people? You didn't know I was going to be here."

"No, I didn't. But you can help me. You can give me a better chance of getting away, making it look like maybe they got to me or something. He can't know why I did it."

"You don't want him to--"

"No. And I'm going to need you to send him in the wrong direction when he comes looking. I need you to lie to him. I need you to help me get out." John's face was still in a mask of shock. "And I need your car."

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

John waited silently for five minutes, waiting for Sam to come back. He knew Dean would be stubborn, but he would accept Sam's decision of going off to college. What he wasn't sure about was how Dean would take to the insults Sam had thrown at him. Dean hadn't been the best at handling those sorts of things.

It was relatively quiet. Whatever his sons were saying to each other, it was less explosive than their arguement. Things were relatively silent, so nothing bad could have happened between them.

That hope was shattered when Sam walked down the hallway silently, his face impassive, his eyes defeated. He looked at John for a second, his eyes showing a cold detatchment John had never seen in his youngest son. Sam shook his head once, his face bitter as he walked directly past his father, not saying a word.

"Sam," John said brusquely. "You can't leave like this." Sam's head turned a fraction of an inch as he paused. He then looked back at John once more.

"I'm leaving," Sam said in a dead voice. "I won't come back, like you said. I understand what you were saying. Apparently, I don't belong in this family." He turned back dispassionately, pulling the creaking door open and stepping into the night. "Don't bother calling. I won't answer," he said as an afterthought.

"What happened?"

"That's not something you need to know," Sam said, his voice so low it was barely distinguishable. He shut the door behind him, plunging the room into complete silence.

"I'm sorry," a voice from behind him said. He turned to see Dean standing in the doorframe leading to the hallway.

"What did he say to you?" John asked. Dean didn't answer. His face was white, his face numb with shock. His eyes traveled aimlessly around the room, as if he was trying to remember what had happened. He was leaning on the wall as if he couldn't fully support himself.

"I can't believe..." he started, his voice a whisper. His breathing was irregular, his face disbelieving. He finally met his father's eyes. "He's gone?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," John replied, his voice shaking as he wondered what could have been said to do this to Dean. What had Sam said to him? "He's gone."

Dean took a quick breath, biting his lip, his eyes riddled with despair. His back to the wall, he slid down to the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. John tentatively went to his side, kneeling down next to his oldest son.

"He just...left?" Dean said again. "He didn't say anything to you, did he?" His eyes were desperate, wild, and his breathing was still choked.

"No, he didn't," John said quickly. "Dean, what happened? What did he say to you? What did he do?"

Dean bit his lip again, lowering his head and taking a big gulp of air before coming back up.

"I think..." he said in a broken voice. "I think that you owe me big time."

"I don't understand," John said, and Dean took another shuddering reath before uttering his next words.

"I said some things, dad," he said, his voice breaking. "Things that I'm sure he'll never forgive me for."

"Why do I owe you?"

"Because I'm pretty sure I just made you look like the good guy in this deal."

**Author's Note: Ok, not much to say. Happy holidays, though! Um...yeah, and in answer to a comment I recieved earlier, Dean _will _find out about Sam. It was going to happen this chapter, but it would have been over 10,000 words and I tend to go for a max of 6,000 so nobody loses focus halfway through and stops reading. In the next few chapters, we also see a new reason why Sam feels the need to sacrifice himself. I don't think it's quite the reason everyone expects and it has a direct link to what was said between Sam and Dean, which will be revealed two chapters from now.**

**Up Next: As tensions rise, secrets are revealed and breaking points are reached. Sam and John are both forced to make tough decisions, and we get more insight into why they make them.**

**Until next time...**


	49. What Have I Done?

**Chapter 49: What Have I Done?**

"Well," Dean asked expectantly as John exited the room, running a hand through his hair, "anything?"

"I'm not a psychiatrist, Dean," John snapped unexpectedly, as if Dean had severely interrupted his thought process.

Taken aback, Dean asked, "What happened? Is he okay? Did he tell you anything?" John met his eyes for the first time, one hand still running through his hair. He froze, his face clearly guilty in some sense. Dean's stomach dropped out. "Dad," he said, his voice shaking the slightest bit, "what's wrong with him?"

John stayed quiet for a second. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. His brow was furrowed, as if he was trying to make a serious decision.

"Sam..." his voice died out in his throat. He took a deep breath, blinking multiple times, and Dean noticed how pale his skin looked.

"Dad, are you okay?" Dean was concerned, scared. He'd never seen his father look this speechless, this...lost. He could have just been imagining it, but when John dropped his head for a second, Dean could have sworn John was about to cry. His eyes were dry when he looked at Dean again, though he still looked deeply disturbed.

"I think he's going to be okay," John said. "He just needs some support right now. It hasn't been an easy time for him."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean retorted. "I've been here the entire time. I've been there for him. But I know when something's wrong, and it is. It's more than just regular stress--"

"You know what happens to victims of trauma," John defended. "He could have a problem. He could need psychiatric help. He might have Post-Traumatic Stress, or something like that." John was grasping wildly for ideas, an excuse that would cover up his lies.

"You're lying to me, aren't you?" Dean accused. "He told you what was wrong, and you agreed not to tell me, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," John defended, and he was able to put more feeling into it now. "You know what this did to him. With what he went through--"

"What_ did _he go through?" Dean demanded angrily. "Do_ you_ know, dad? I don't. We can't even imagine what they did to him, and they're still doing it. They're still putting him through hell, and for some reason he's not telling me why he's letting them."

"He's not letting them do anything," John said.

"Dad, tell me."

John took a deep breath then looked directly into Dean's eyes. "I'll tell you. Just wait for a few minutes, okay?"

Dean shook his head in confusion. "Why won't you tell me now?"

"There's nothing to tell." This time the voice didn't come from John. Sam was suddenly standing in the doorway. To any normal person, he would have looked totally normal, if not a little phony. He looked better than he had in the past two months. Ever since John had appeared, he had seemed like he wanted to prove something to Dean and John. To Dean, he was probably saying "See, I'm fine. Dad believes me." To John, he seemed to be saying something like: "See? I don't know what Dean is talking about. I'm fine. Nothing is wrong." Dean had no idea how wrong he was.

"Really," Sam confirmed. "I'm fine. I told you, there's nothing wrong." He smiled encouragingly. Maybe Dean was just overreacting. Maybe Sam was just trying a little too hard to seem fine. He thought he had to be strong in front of Dean. He thought he had to cover up, not to show Dean how hurt he was.

_I did that, _the guilty voice in the back of Dean's head said. _I was the one that made him think that. I said all those things. I was the one that told him that I didn't care about him anymore._

_You're turning into a sap, Dean. Stop it._

"Do you guys want to go out to eat or something?" Sam asked, trying to be casual about it. "I never got a chance to eat, thanks to you, Dean, and both of your constant interrogations."

* * *

**-Five Minutes Ago-**

"Sam," John said cautiously, trying to hide the terror that coursed through him, icy and paralysing, "you need to think about this. You can't--"

"Look," Sam said, his face desperate, "I can do it with or without your help." He stood suddenly, wringing his hands, which were shaking slightly. Sam took a shallow breath, nodding to himself, trying to convince himself that he was making the right choice. "But I need you to choose, and I need you to choose now."

"Now?" John choked out. "You can't just do this. You can't spring something like this on me, asking me to do this, and expect me to give you an answer without hesitation."

"Yes, I can," Sam responded through gritted teeth, angry with a kind of scared impatience John couldn't even imagine. "I'm taking a risk even telling you about this, asking you to help me, but somehow I knew you would understand."

_Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made, _the memory taunted him.

"So?" Sam asked in a whisper, his breath shuddering, and he looked down, anywhere to escape his father's gaze. He waited in silence, looking like he was waiting for a physical blow. Once, he chanced a glance at John for less than a second, but when he spoke again, he said, "Stop looking at me like that." His voice was tense, forced, like he had a huge lump in his throat. "Please, don't look at me like that. Like I'm running away from everything again. I don't deserve your pity, dad."

"It's not pity, Sam," John defended, but Sam paid no attention to him.

"I told you that I want to be the one to choose what to do with my life, whether you accepted it or not. But I really want you to accept it." His brow was furrowed as if he was in pain.

"Sam, you sound suicidal here..." John tried to urge him in an attempt to make him see reason.

"I'm not afraid of death as much as I used to be. I'm not killing myself. They'll do worse than that. But after going through it once...I'm not scared of them anymore." He was lying through his teeth, but he had to put up a strong front for John. "I can fight them. I know I can. I have to." He dropped his head again for a second to brace himself once more. "I know that this sounds crazy," Sam began, "but I think you finally got through to me. This is humanity. This is what it's finally come to. The real world's not a pretty place. I just want you to know that I'm not doing this because I'm suicidal, because I'm delusional, or because I don't know what'll happen to me. I do know. I _do_ know what'll happen to me, and I hate it. It scares the shit out of me. But opposed to the alternatives, I'll take it. So are you with me?"

John shook his head in denial. He was trapped.

* * *

"Well," Dean said, breaking the silence, uneasily seeing the grave looks on his sibling and father's faces, though Sam looked like he was covering it up better. Sam was attempting to look bored, twirling his straw around in his drink absentmindedly, but he was staring too intently at it, occasionaly throwing a glance in Dean's direction when he thought he wasn't looking, that he definitely wasn't daydreaming. John just seemed pissed off. They were also looking at each other, like middle schoolers that had just shared their secret crushes with each other, only one-hundred times worse. There was a definite 'no going back now' vibe about them. "This is awkward." 

"Our family really isn't one for the whole talking about personal issues crap," Sam said in a murmur.

"You're taking it to a whole different level," Dean observed. "It feels like a freaking conspiracy around here."

"I told you," Sam said in a tense voice, not looking up from his drink. "Nothing's wrong."

"Then why are you two acting like you're hiding something from me? I think I have a right to know what happened in there."

"We just talked, Dean," John said in a calming voice.

"About what?" Dean demanded.

"There was a lot I missed," John explained. "There was quite a bit I had to hear about myself. I had to hear some things from Sam."

"You promised me--" Dean started.

"Yes, I did. I do think there's something you should know."

Sam turned white, his head snapping up.

"I thought--" he started, his voice panicked, but John silenced him by raising his hand.

"Sam..." John started. "Well, I know you asked me not to tell him, but he has a right to know."

_"Dad!"_ Sam said, his voice raising angrily. His eyes were frantic, looking around the room as if he was looking for an escape there.

"Sam and I had a long talk, and I think we've come to a decision." Sam looked like a deer trapped in the headlights, only one that was seriously fucking pissed off. He seemed to be a second away from punching someone. He was desperate. "He didn't like it, but he grudgingly agreed to see a psychiatrist."

That one caught Dean off guard, and if he hadn't been so surprised, he would have seen Sam and John exchange a quick glance. "Really?" he said doubtfully, throwing Sam an accusatory glare.

"Yes," John said. "Sam and I talked about this, and he didn't really like the idea. I made it clear, though, that I knew this was what was best for him, especially after I learned some of the things that were going through his head." He glanced at Sam reproachfully, and Dean wondered if he meant what he had told John or something else. John wasn't forthcoming with those particular details. "Professional help seems to be one of the few remaining solutions we have left."

"So what I'm doing isn't enough?" He didn't say it spitefully; the truth was, he was hurt. Within half an hour, John had been able to tell that what Dean was doing wouldn't be enough to help Sam.

"They can help him," John said, as if Sam wasn't even there. It wasn't like Sam protested; he remained curiously silent.

"They'll lock him away," Dean defended vehemently.

"We don't know that."

"Yes, we do. How are they supposed to help him? He can't tell them what's wrong. Like you can just go talk to some random person and tell them, 'I was kidnapped by a demon who fucked up my mind permanently.' That's going to go over really well."

"The possession is not something a psychiatrist can help him with," John agreed. "But the other things, yes. And we can always change the story, so it's pretty much the same, but without the demons. People with post-traumatic stress can have the same sort of experiences he did. They can go through periods of depression as well, even have suicidal thoughts like--"

Sam and Dean's heads snapped up at the same time, Sam in anger, Dean in shock. "What?" Dean asked as Sam repeated the same exclamation of,_ "Dad!"_

_"_Is that," Dean said angrily, the pit dropping out of his stomach as he looked at Sam's face, the youngest giving John the evil eye with all the stregth he could muster, "what everyone wouldn't tell me about?"

"No," Sam insisted hurriedly, shaking his head too fast to be genuine. "I promise. I swear it's not--"

"It isn't," John agreed, confusing Dean more.

"Then what...?"

"Sam, do you want to tell him?" John asked his son, cocking his head to the side, giving Sam no way out. Sam's eyes were fixed on the table, his lips sealed. "Fine, then," John said indignantly. "Sam was going to run off on us, weren't you, Sammy?"

Sam turned, if possible, even whiter than he was before. Dean felt the blood rush out of his own face. He looked to Sam, who wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I don't understand," Dean said, his voice monotone with shock. Sam still stayed silent.

"Of course, it was for our own good, wasn't it?" John said, his voice harsh. Sam bit his lip, and though Dean couldn't see his face clearly, he could practically feel the waves of hatred rushing off of him. John addressed Dean. "He thought it was for our own safety. He thought we would be better off without him, that he could stop them from taking you. He said something about them trying to kill you before." Dean still felt incapable of speech, his mind barely processing the information. It made sense, though.

"Do you realize what you--" Sam started, his voice a hiss, in John's direction. John cut him off, though, acting like he hadn't heard.

"Let me assure you, I will be keeping a very close eye on him for awhile."

"What am I, ten?" Sam argued.

"You were about to attempt suicide!" John threw back.

"It wasn't suicide, for god's--"

"Then what was it, Sam?" John asked calmly. "Can you word it in a better way? You were going to be exposed, you were going to give yourself up to them. It sounds like suicide to me."

"Wait!" Dean said loudly. "Giving himself up? What?!" John focused his attention on Dean once more.

"He was going to go back to them," John said simply, and Dean felt the air leave his lungs like he had been punched in the gut. "He failed to mention his little 'episodes' to you, didn't he?" Dean missed the momentary flicker of confusion over Sam's face. "He's slipping, and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. He thought he was going to hurt you, so he wanted to leave and go to them."

Dean couldn't breathe. How could he not have picked up on this before? He was practically with Sam twenty-four seven.

But the big question was how Sam could do it. How could he even think it?

"We need to take this conversation outside," Dean said in a forced calm tone.

* * *

Dean was taking it well. Too well. He walked in silence, nodding silently to the friendly waitress at the front, whose face fell as she looked upon his moody expression. She was hot, too, which meant Dean was basically going against his genetic coding. 

Not good.

Sam didn't dare speak a word, though he chanced a single glance in his father's direction, warranting only a nod. He still couldn't tell where John was going with this whole thing. His stomach was still clenched with nerves as he prayed that John wouldn't give him away. He was realizing how stupid it was for him to have told his father anything. Knowing his history with John, he would probably tell Dean everything just to piss Sam off.

That just showed how fucked up their relationship really was. Some real After School Special potential there.

John was playing with him first, though, and that was what made Sam's blood boil. He wasn't going to just give him up, no. He was going to give him hope that maybe he wouldn't. If you could call it hope.

It had to be that night. Any longer, and Dean would definitely notice something was up. He would be on constant watch. Sam had to be gone by the time Dean woke up the next morning. No, sooner than that. He was even unconsciously looking for excuses to get away to places with windows. He had already swiped John's car keys when he had taken his jacket off. Of course, maybe that was another way John was toying with his mind. It would be just like him to give him a fake pair of keys.

Not that it mattered. John had taught him how to hotwire a car when he started high-school. And now more than ever Sam wanted to take John's car. The car he had driven around in for eight years, ever since he had given Dean the Impala when he had turned nineteen. Maybe John would actually notice something was missing then.

He was thinking spiteful things like that the whole time they were walking, barely even noticing the destination, around the corner from the parking lot. He didn't even care that nobody was there. He didn't care that Dean had stopped, turning to Sam as his footsteps halted.

Oh, yeah, Dean had been taking it way too well. He should have seen it coming, really, after all those years.

He heard John yell out before he actually saw what Dean was doing. One second Sam was standing, staring at the ground, and the next his back slammed against the wall. John protested, but Dean didn't seem like he noticed, pushing Sam back once more to the wall to keep him in place.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean yelled angrily in Sam's face, his own contorted with a strange mix of emotions Sam didn't bother trying to decipher. He couldn't even hold his gaze there. "Look at me!" Dean insisted, resisting as John tried to pry him away, apparently afraid Dean would start doing more damage to Sam.

"Dean--" Sam started, but Dean just slammed him into the wall again, even more roughly.

"Do you realize how stupid you are?" Dean continued, raising his voice. His eyes were furious but hurt at the same time. His hands were shaking, too. "Do you realize what you were going to do?" John finally pulled him back, but not without a struggle. Dean was still fighting aganst him, his eyes never leaving Sam, who remained hunched, leaning against the wall for support. His body ached; Dean had always been a little out of control when he had gotten angry. Judging by the way he was trying to fight his way out of his father's grasp around his chest, that wasn't going to be the worst of it if he got away.

"Dean calm down," John tried to soothe him, but he wasn't hearing any of it.

"I never thought you would be so god damned stupid, Sam," Dean hissed, trying to regain his breath for another yelling fit.

"I was doing what I thought was best," Sam defended, but that only made Dean struggle even harder, John wildly trying to keep a solid grip around Dean's chest. He was stronger than his son, but Dean had the power of total and complete rage on his side.

"What you thought was best!" Dean spat out with a bark of humorless laughter. "What was good about it, Sam?" Now there was a change in him. It was a less outright anger, and more of a deep feeling that he didn't understand something in his eyes. That was even worse. "The abandoning your family part or the killing yourself part?" He had stopped kicking out for the meantime, breathing like he had run a long-distance race.

"I..." Sam started, but couldn't find the right words. His voice sounded weak and pathetic, but he managed to meet his brother's eyes for a moment.

"Why?" Dean asked, quietly but still with a bit of anger in his tone. His eyes mirrored the question. He really didn't understand at all.

Sam had to look away. He turned his head to the side, looking down the alley.

"Look at me," Dean said in a forceful voice, but his throat seemed constricted, his voice coming out choked. Sam could hear him trying once more to get away, to get to Sam. "Let me go," he insisted, but John only tightened his grip. "Look at me," he repeated angrily at Sam. "Why did you do it? Why did you even _think_ about leaving us again?" His voice was husky, desperate. "I can help you. We can help you. How is that not good enough for you?" John was talking to him, trying to calm him once more, but it was no use. He was beyond whatever help John could give him.

"I'm sorry," Sam replied honestly. Dean's face contorted, and for a second he wasn't Dean anymore. Dean would never look that...hurt. But just like typical Dean, he pulled himself back into the rage.

"Why'd you even bother coming back, then?" Dean spat in a last-ditch effort. The youngest Winchester recognized the method from awhile ago. "Why didn't you stay away at college, like you know you wanted to? You could have stayed away from me, from all of this. Why did you even bother coming back when you were just going to--"

"I should have known this was coming," Sam retorted, cutting him off. "It's what you've always done. When someone says or does something that hurts you, you always have to pay them back. You always have to say something to hurt them back even more than they hurt you!" Now he was the one advancing on Dean, and he could see John wondering how he was going to keep them away from each other. He was strong, but not so strong as to stop a fight between his two fully grown sons if it came down to it.

"Maybe if you hadn't wanted to abandon your family because of some little dream of yours, we wouldn't have resorted to that," Dean growled as Sam stopped two feet away, kicking out once more against John, whose arms still wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Oh, sure, here it comes--"

"At least I never killed anyone!" Dean shouted. Sam's mouth closed in shock, and John let up for a second, but luckily Dean wasn't struggling that hard.

"Killed--" John started, but he had to stop, as Sam was now advancing on Dean as if he had every intent of strangling him right then and there. He held an arm out, keeping Sam away, his other arm wrapped around Dean's torso firmly.

"You son of a bitch!" Sam started, but Dean just stared back grimly.

"You killed them, Sam," Dean continued, as if Sam hadn't said anything in response. "You made sure that kid was going to end up as fucked up as you are!" His eyes were wide, and though it wasn't obvious, he was trembling. "You doomed both of those kids, so they're going to end up like us! They're going to fight like this, their lives are going to be ruined by this! They're going to be split apart by a fight over something stupid that all got started by_ you!" _Sam's face was now as white as a sheet. Dean lowered his tone. "You killed them, Sam," Dean said simply. He didn't even look bothered with what he was saying. He delivered his words with a cold indifference. "That's on you."

John's eyes were on Sam now, not understanding. Sam made no move to explain; John would figure it out anyway. He would never forgive Sam for it.

Sam turned to leave, then, as if in an afterthought, turned back and punched Dean as hard as he could. His fist collided solidly. John was so caught off guard, he couldn't stop it. Dean stumbled, sending both of them falling backward. John kept Dean on his feet, though, and recovered just in time to keep the two brothers from colliding, which would head into a full-on fight. This time it was Sam who was struggling the most.

"Let me go," he snarled. "I can take him. We're not kids anymore. I can kick his ass."

"Nobody," John roared, "is kicking anyone else's ass tonight. Settle down!" He shoved them apart. "Both of you!" Dean shrugged his shoulders, settling his jacket back on his back. He rubbed his chin furtively; Sam could pack a mean punch when he was pissed off.

"I've had _enough _of this shit," Sam muttered, turning away. John grabbed his wrist, but with one of his inhumanly fast movements Sam had gotten away from his grasp.

"You're going back to them?" Dean asked. "You're going to let them turn you into that thing, let them make you hurt more people, just because you can't control it?" His voice was scathing, but Sam was surprised, as was John. Dean really _hadn't _figured it out. He still didn't know that it was because of him.

That explained a lot.

John opened his mouth to correct him, but Sam nodded sharply, a warning.

"Yeah," Sam continued sarcastically. "I was missing my old buddies back at the lair." He laughed humorlessly. "You know, that whole self-defense mechanism is crap. You're going to blame everyone else for what they've done, but you never own up to what you did."

Jaw clenched, the only thing Dean could think of to say in response was, "Go to hell, Sammy."

"Oh, _very _original. You truly are dad's son, you know that?"

"Hey!" John and Dean yelled at the same time. Dean made another move forward, but John caught him just in time by the shoulders, pulling him back.

"Don't get pissed at me because of the decisions that I make. This had nothing to do with you! Don't flatter yourself!" John looked astonished that Sam was still covering up his lies. Even now, he didn't pull out the one thing that would hurt Dean the most. He wouldn't admit to caring that much about Dean. Not after what Dean had said.

"Then what was all that 'let's enjoy the time we have left,' shit about?" Dean was practically stranging himself, he was pulling so hard against John's arms. He was trying every escape method possible, some that John himself had taught him, some that he had creatively come up with on his own. It was surprising he could try that hard and still speak, let alone yell.

"Maybe I was trying to convince myself that you would actually care if I just disappeared."

"Well, I think you got the answer to that awhile ago! The same night you decided that you were going to be a selfish brat and leave our family!"

"Selfish? Is _that_ what you think I am? You think I gave myself up to them all those months ago for you because I was _selfish_?"

"Yes! Because _you _had to play the hero! You wanted me to feel guilty! You did it just to show me I was wrong about you! You know you've always wanted to pay me back for what I said! And do you know why? Because it was_ true_!"

"Ok," John said warningly, "I think this is crossing a line---"

"No, dad, let him go," Sam said, his voice a snarl. "He's on a roll." Dean's furious gaze burned into his eyes, as if he believed he could kill Sam with a glare. "He just wants to hurt me," he continued calmly while Dean silently fumed. "He wants to hurt me as much as he can, because he can't handle being the more damaged one. Not a single phone call in four years. Not a single apology. You disown your own brother, you think you'd feel a little remorse. Not Dean, here."

Dean let out a frustrated roar. "For the last time," he said loudly. "I didn't disown you."

"I can't believe you sometimes," Sam said incredulously. "Even now, you won't own up to it. What if I had died the day after I left? Would you have even bothered to come to the funeral, or would you still be so pissed at me you wouldn't care?"

"You son of a bitch," Dean seethed. "You honestly think--"

"Oh, wasn't that the impression you wanted me to have?" Sam asked, inciting another tussle between John and Dean, who managed to get a good hit in. He didn't even seem to realize it was his father with whom he was fighting; all he cared about was getting at Sam. Sam was now advancing, too, and John was struggling to keep the two brothers apart from each other.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" Dean yelled. "All I've _ever_ done is try to help you! I _tried_ to be the supportive one when you left, but I couldn't help it! Don't act like you didn't say anything meant to hurt _me _that night. Don't you _dare_. Who was the one that carried you out of the god damned burning building? Who saved your ass countless times? Who was the one that carried you when you were bleeding and dying to the car and that sobbed their fucking heart out when they thought you were dead? Don't act like I don't care, Sam! Don't! I gave _everything _for you! And you're just going to throw that away! You were just going to throw me out, throw your family out, because you wanted to be _normal_! That's why I told you I didn't care! I wanted you to know how it felt to be thrown out by the one person you cared about! The person you'd die for the second they asked you to, without even thinking! And if that makes me a heartless bastard, so be it!"

"That's_ enough_!" John yelled, stopping both of his sons in their tracks, shoving them apart from each other. "Both of you!" They both stopped, unwilling to look at each other as they breathed raggedly. "I can't believe you sometimes," he said in a disgraced voice.

"Like you're one to talk," Sam retorted.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean warned.

"Why don't you?" Sam said, turning on Dean once more. John placed himself in between the two.

"God, could you be any more of a five year old?" Dean spat back.

"I thought I said both of you!" John roared as loud as he could. It shut both of them up. "Dammit!" John said in a frustrated growl, kicking one of the trash cans as hard as he could. Sam and Dean watched warily, afraid of what was to come. Fighting between the two had never been accepted by John.

Dean was the first on to break the spell. He pulled away from the group, not lunging at Sam like he had expected. He just shook his head, looking at a space above Sam. He shrugged back into his jacket, adjusting his collar in a casual way, as if it could fix the fact that he had just spilled his guts out. John remained in a ready position in case Dean was waiting to catch him off guard or something like that.

He wasn't. Dean ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. In the end, he turned his back, walking away towards the bench near the main road. Sam tried to go after him, but John put out a hand to stop him, shaking his head.

* * *

Why did this feel so god damned familiar all of a sudden? Why, every time something like this happened, did he feel like he had committed some huge crime? He hadn't done anything wrong. Sam knew what he had done was wrong, that what he was trying to do was meant to hurt him. John knew it, too. He had just told the truth. 

What was so wrong with that?

He heard Sam try to walk over to him, to follow him, but John stopped him. Dean was glad; he didn't need Sam's 'support' right then.

He could barely remember what the arguement had started with. He could only think of what it had turned to, what he had ended up bringing up. He had promised himself never to let it happen again, never to let himself get that angry with Sam again. Not after that night. He had learned his lesson when he had seen first hand what it could do if he did. What had he gotten out of that one venting period, the one time he had let himself show how angry he was, not just with Sam, but with everything?

Four years of hell.

It wasn't his fault. Sam was the one that had started all this in the first place. Sam was the one trying to be the hero, the martyr, when there was no reason to in the first place. Sam was the one running away, not him.

* * *

"Sam, you can't just leave him like that!" John stated loudly after Sam, who kept a steady pace as he headed through the almost-abandoned diner. The remaining people in there minded their own business. 

"Yes," Sam replied, "I can." He turned around, and John could see how pale his skin was. He looked green, like he was about to be sick right there.

"Sam, are you okay?" Sam swallowed heavily, nodding as best he could under the circumstances. He held a hand up.

"I'm just..." he turned away for a second. "I have to get a second." His hands were shaking wildly, his eyes desperate, wide.

"Um...sure." Sam turned away towards the bathroom, a hand going involuntarily to his mouth. That had always been a problem, ever since he was a kid. He hadn't done it in eight years, but John couldn't blame him. Sam would sometimes get sick after he went through stressful periods. A few minutes of puking later, and he would usually feel better.

But this wasn't usually. Sam was going to need longer than a few minutes. John felt the irritation towards Dean bubbling up. He surely hadn't helped the situation at all. Of course, he hadn't known the full extent of what Sam was going through, and Dean hadn't always been the sharpest pair of scissors in the shed, but he should have gotten a freaking clue that this wasn't the time to start a fight. John himself didn't know exactly what had happened the night Sam had left for college; Dean had never wanted to talk about it. Whatever it had been, it had made sure neither of his sons had spoken in four years.

Sam pulled the creaking door open, turning once to glance back at John. "Could you..." he swallowed again, forcing the bile back down his throat. "Can you please tell Dean I'm sorry? He won't want to hear it from me."

"Sure," John said. "But I'm staying right out here." His tone clearly told Sam he wasn't letting him go anywhere. Bathrooms were always a dead end anyway.

"Dad..."

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

_God, what have I done?_

"Dean, come on, you have to get up," John persuaded a nonresponsive Dean from next to him.

"Go away, dad," Dean said in a numb voice.

_What was I thinking?_

"What happened? What did you say?"

Dean closed his eyes, dropping his head down to his knees. "Some things I shouldn't have," was all he could get out. Even John could catch the change in pitch of his voice.

That was when the wave of panic came.

_He's gone._

* * *

**-Now-**

Four years.

Four years without Sam, knowing he was out there hating him, hating anything that reminded him of Dean. It was torture.

It was hell.

It was hard to think that a few words, said on the spur of the moment out of a simple urge, could wreck two lives like that. Looking back on it, Dean couldn't even remember the exact words he had used. He didn't even remember saying them. All he could remember was rage. The all-consuming, total rage. He didn't even notice Sam's stricken expression. He kept going. He had _wanted_ to hurt Sam.

Damn, their family belonged on an episode of Jerry Springer or something. He had actually _wanted _to hurt Sam. How could he fool hismelf into thinking he cared about Sam, that all of his efforts had actually meant something, when he had caused his baby brother to look like that? He had watched Sam go without saying a word, without a protest. He had_ told_ Sam to go.

"Dean," a voice called from behind him. By the sound, the person was running.

_Please,_ he prayed_, don't let that be Sam._

It turned out, that was exactly what he _should_ have prayed for.

"Dean!" the voice repeated, the older man's tone commanding, but he could swear he heard a hint of barely-controlled panic behind it.

Too drained to open his mouth and form words, he merely shrugged. Someone touched his shoulder, and he flinched away from the contact, wishing whoever it was to leave him alone.

"Dean, it's about Sam," the man contnued. Dean flinched again. He didn't want to hear that name. Not then. Not there. He didn't want reminder of those four years of hell.

"What..." he forced out all the same. He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound collected, calm, which he wasn't. "What about him?"

"He's gone."

Dean blinked.

"Come again?" he said.

"He snuck out of the bathroom. There was a window. I didn't see it when I came in. When I checked on him, it was open, and he was gone. So is my car."

"What?" Dean repeated numbly.

_Four years_, he reminded himself. He had spent four years in hell because he had said before. Now he was about to spend a lifetime in it if he didn't get to Sam soon.

"We have to go," John replied urgently. "I think we can head him off."

**Author's Note: Merry Christmas, everybody. Thanks for reading. By the way, I helped my friend BloodyMaryBloodyMaryBloodyMary write a Christmas oneshot, and by helped I mean edited and added random crap, which bascally means I wrote basically wrote all the Snuggles the fabric softener teddy bear jokes. Comedy is not my forte. She also finished her first story, Bullets. You know, I knew everything that was going to happen in that story, until I read the ending. She dumped that freaking cliffhanger on me! Damn! She'd better do a sequel.**

**Anyway, review, people, as a Christmas gift to me, please. Spread the joy! I'd really like to know what you think. What do you guys think is going to happen?**

**Oh, and as a side note: I do realize this story is getting long. Sorry about that. I do plan on breaking it into a sequel, but I can't do that until a certain point. You see, I wrote this so that I had some sort of Supernatural fix when it wasn't on, and I set out to write sort of a virtual season 2. No, I never realized it was going to get that long, but I just kept adding stuff. I have to break it into a sequel at a certain point, and let me tell you, you're not going to like me at all after I do. I guess it's my virtual season finale. Oh, and if you totally hate me after it, please do not stop reading. All hope is not lost as it may seem. That's coming up in about 8 chapters, I'd say, but that's what I said last time I talked about this.**

**Up Next: I can't tell you much, but know that next chapter is the flashback to the night Sam left for college and we find out what was said after Dean shuts the door on Sam.**

**Until next time...**


	50. I Don't Love You

**Chapter 50: I Don't Love You**

**Author's Note: The chapter title is after a My Chemical Romance Song. Yes, I'm obsessed. I can't help it. It really does fit, if you listen to the lyrics at some parts.**

**-Five Years Ago-**

The door shut in Sam's face, coming within an inch of his nose, grazing the tip a bit. There was a grating sound of the lock clicking.

"Dean!" Sam called, loud enough to be heard through the door. He banged his fist against the door for effect, yielding no results except for some possibly bruised knuckles. He glanced over his shoulder, only to observe that his father was not within hearing distance. Thank god.

"Come on, man, let me in!"

No response. Sam pounded on the door once more, wondering how much it would take to get Dean to open the door. After a few moments, he gave up.

"Please," he said in a lower voice, then leaned against the door, listening for any sign of life, any sign Dean had heard or cared. "Come on. We can talk about this. If you don't open this door, if you just let me walk away..." he stopped, the words catching in his throat. How was he supposed to finish that sentence without sounding like a total asshole?

Sam shook his head, still leaning heavily against the wall, in hopes Dean just might say something, let something slip to see if Sam was listening.

"If I leave like this and you let me go, I'm never going to forgive myself." Sam leaned against the wall once more, shifting to make his position more comfortable. His ear was still pressed against the door, his hand resting palm-out on the wood. He didn't know how he knew it, but he was almost sure Dean was mirroring his position. He probably looked less pathetic, but Sam could feel him on the other side. He had been right, he later found out. Dean had been sitting on the other side of the door, his back to it, his knees pulled up to his chest, his head resting against the door. "So I'm going to stay out here until you say something."

Complete silence. It was almost unbearable, waiting like this. Sam would later remember every torturous second of it. A part of him would regret not leaving right then, not giving Dean the chance to let his anger boil up for so long.

Sam heard a click and immediately stood back up. Slowly, as if wanting to keep Sam guessing, the doorknob turned. It was true; Sam _was _wondering if Dean was just psyching him out, messing with him.

The movement stopped, and Sam unconsciously held his breath. On the other side of the door, Sam was sure Dean was asking himself if he really wanted to follow through on the motion. If he opened the door, he was going to have to talk to his brother. That was, unless he was just going to slam the door in his face once more.

The door creaked open, a surprisingly ominous sound, for who would have guessed a door could be used as a warning? Sam should have taken the hint. He shouldn't have let the conversation take the turn it had. The second Dean started opening the door, Sam should have said "I'm sorry." He didn't think it would have fixed everything, but maybe he would have known he had at least tried to fix things.

Yet, as Dean opened the door, a blank look on his face, all Sam could think about was how wildly Dean had overreacted. He had never considered just how hurt Dean was. Or maybe he had just forgotten what would happen when someone hurt Dean.

Dean stared at him for a long second that went on for what seemed like an eternity. Sam would never know what was going through Dean's mind at that point, but it seemed like he was trying to calm himself down, to look like he wasn't about to make his own head explode.

Sam should have said sorry, but he didn't. He didn't say anything.

Dean kept staring.

"Are you going to say anything?" Sam asked eventually.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dean said sarcastically. "I thought I was the cold-hearted bastard who doesn't give a shit. He's not very social, and he's pissed off."

So much for calming down.

"Look, I think you're overreacting..." Sam would later cringe at the memory of that line. For all the good it did him, he might as well have waved a red cape at a bull.

"I'm overreacting?" Dean asked in the iciest voice Sam had ever heard him use. Just the sound of it made the bottom drop out of Sam's stomach. "I have a_ right_ to overreact, Sammy."

"It's Sam," Sam said in reflex. One more wrong move. Dean closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head a bit. He looked at Sam with a 'don't go there,' look.

"Just go," he said simply. He took a deep breath. "Just go."

"No," Sam replied with his most stubborn tone. "I'm not just going to leave you like this."

"I thought that was the point," Dean threw back. "Not like I care, though," he said coldly. "Right? I don't have feelings."

"I just think you took things--"

"You were leaving, Sam!" Dean said loudly, finally breaking through his sarcasm into pure anger. He stopped for a second, attempting to calm himself once more, but it didn't work. He turned around and kicked the doorframe. "You were leaving, and you weren't even going to tell me, were you?" His voice was deadly cool, his eyes closed, facing away from Sam.

"I'm telling you now," Sam said lamely. He felt his heart sinking as he looked at Dean, and knew that no excuse would work.

"That not good enough," Dean said solemnly.

"I forgot. Nothing I ever do is good enough," Sam agreed sourly. "For you, or for dad. That's the way--"

"You know what, Sam?" Dean said, totally irritated as he turned back to Sam. "For once in your life, shut the fuck up." His teeth were gritted, and there wasn't a bit of regret in his eyes. He was just getting started. "All I ever hear about is you and dad fighting. He said this, you said that. 'Sam's being stubborn', 'Dad's such a jackass. I hate him so much.'" He had put on a mocking tone.

"I never said that."

"I'm paraphrasing here!" Dean said. "_Your _tirades go on for so long we'd be here for hours."

"Ok, I've had--"

"It's all I ever hear about, all I've _ever _heard about since you were thirteen! You go on for hours about how he's ruining your life, and I'm_ always_ there! I listen to every god damned word that comes out of your mouth, and what do I get in return? This!" Once more, he kicked the door. Then he rounded on Sam again. "You always thought I was going to be that person. The one that's going to be there for you no matter what. The one that's going to hold you when you cry--"

"God, do you and dad have the same Insult Consultor?" Dean ignored him.

"I'm not that guy, Sam! I'm not _going _to be that guy! You don't want me to be! I tried, but you were always there, pushing me away. And now it's too late. I'm not going to always be there for you, Sam! I'm not! I'm not going to follow you around like a guard dog."

"Then why are you yelling at me for wanting to leave?" Sam retorted. "If I want to leave you, then why aren't you happy? I'm not a weight on your shoulders anymore. Why do you care?"

"I care because I have to," Dean said simply. "I care because you're my baby brother, and I have to take care of you."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, it doesn't."

* * *

**-Now-**

Sam's feet hit the ground, hard, and he had to roll to keep from breaking his neck. The window had been farther up than he had realized, and the dumpster he had seen outside must have been by the girls room's window.

But this was fine. He was lucky the damn bathroom even _had _a window, thank god. It took him about five minutes to get the thing open, and that was too long for John to wait as it was, but he made it.

He was running as fast as he could and still remain silent. The dirt rose up whenever he took a step, and the sun was setting, the clouds rolling in over the stars. He might have been imagining it, but he thought he heard thunder in the distance.

Wonderful. Just what he needed. Rain. Then again, it might help the escape be easier, bring down visibility for awhile. Still, the one night he had left the sky just_ had_ to be cloudy and dark. He hated when the weather fit his mood. He had gotten sick of that when he had gotten back only to realize it rained every freaking day no matter where they went. Well, up until the night Dean had found him and he had finally told somebody just how he was feeling. Only then would the sun come out.

Sam hated irony. It felt like the gods must have just decided to torture him, to say if he didn't open up to his brother, it would become the next Noah's Ark, and damn, Sam hated animals. And boats. Then there was that thing about wiping out a lot of civilization, but whatever.

The hand in his jacket pocket wound around the keys to his dad's car that he had swiped from his jacket when John had been holding him back, too focused on keeping Sam and Dean from killing each other to notice Sam had finally listened to one of his lessons. Sure, he felt bad about it. It was his dad's car, the one he loved more than life itself. More than Sam.

Boo freaking hoo.

Needless to say, Sam wasn't in the best of moods at that point. He hated fighting with Dean. It just brought up uncomfortable memories, and who needed that reminder?

Sam turned the keys in the ignition, turning the car around. Looking in the rear view, he could have sworn he could see John's face, but didn't care.

He headed for the hotel. There were some loose ends he needed to tie up.

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

Dean shook his head, biting his lip so hard Sam thought he was sure to draw blood. He didn't. "Sam, if you're going to go, then go. If you want my blessing, you're going to be here for awhile."

"I'm willing to--"

"Stop it, Sam." Dean's voice was still quiet, restrained. Forced. Dean still wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. His own were focused on the ground. "You've done enough damage for one lifetime. Our family's fucked up enough as it is. We don't need to go helping it along."

"I know this isn't going to make things right, but really, those things I said to dad weren't meant to hurt you."

Dean shrugged, laughing bitterly. "Who are you fooling, Sam?"

"Really, they're not true. I don't really think--"

"Well, then, you should go into writing for a living, because you're pretty creative when you're pissed off." It was from that point on, with Dean's quiet, resigned tone, that he knew he had done more damage than he had known. "It's true, Sam. I _know_ it's true."

"What?"

"I really am all the things you said. I'm cold, detatched, and I don't care about anything but myself." Sam was still in shock. "You did that, Sam. You made me the way I am. I really did love you, but you just never got it. I tried so hard to be that guy. I tried too hard to protect you from everything, and somewhere along the way I lost you. You stopped caring."

Sam shook his head in denial. "No--"

"And, I guess," Dean continued, "so did I. All we ever talked about was how much you hated dad. And it made me angry. Every single time, it tore me apart watching you two hate each other like that. It was wrong. You both never saw it, but it was eating me up. But I was _still_ there for you." He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his words were harsh. "I don't even get why I _bothered_."

* * *

**-Now-**

"So we don't know where he is, where he's heading, or what he has?"

"He took the keys to my car, so I think it's safe to say he won't have to waste time stealing another one," John replied, less than enthusiastic, keeping pace with Dean's almost-run, though he had no idea where they were supposed to go. Dean didn't care, though. Whether he knew where they were going or not, he truly belived he had to find Sam; he was_ going_ to find Sam. "Hotel." John only had to speak that one word and Dean was off, sprinting.

"Come on," he yelled.

"Dean, we have no form of transportation! We're not going to catch up with him!"

"To hell we're not," Dean snorted, already setting his sights on the motorcycles nearby.

"No, Dean..." But it was too late. Dean was ready to go.

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

"Look, you're mad..." Sam tried to calm him.

"Go," Dean said. "Go off and live your normal life. Just do me a favor. Forget about us. I know you want to, and god knows I don't want to hurt you." The sarcasm was dripping off of his last sentence, and all Sam could do was stand in stunned silence. He couldn't keep up with Dean's changing opinions. Dean ran a hand over his face. "Just go," he said harshly.

"No," Sam said. Dean took a shuddering breath.

"I can't do this anymore," Dean said angrily. "I can't look at you anymore. I can't take it. I can't take this constant shit. You think I _asked _for this life? You think I _wanted_ to move around? You think I wanted to listen to you bitching every single night? No. But I didn't give up on my life!"

"At least I stood up to dad," Sam reorted. "I couldn't take it either, but I_ did_ something about it. Our family is screwed. I'm getting on the lifeboat before I get dragged down."

"So you're relating our family to a death trap?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Wonderful analogy there. I'm sure the geeks there at Stanford will laugh for days about that one."

"Funny. I forgot, you always cover everything up with a cocky smile and a smartass comment that really is just meant to hurt you."

"Don't start pulling your psych shit on me," Dean warned. "You have no_ idea_ what I'm going through and you _never_ will. Because you're always going to be that guy that needs to feed off of other people, that needs to whine about how much his life sucks to someone, but doesn't care about what_ they_ have to say. You wanted me to be the supportive, sensitive one. You always wanted me to be someone I'm not, and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of _you_."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. Shocked silence was all he could muster. Dean had never said anything like that before. He'd never acted like that before in his entire life. The Dean Sam knew would never say he hated his younger brother.

"What are you trying to say?" Sam choked out, and Dean shook his head in a frustrated way.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asked earnestly. "You don't know..."

"No, I don't." Dean bit his lip. "Look, if you want me to stay--"

"You don't mean that. You're going to go to Stanford whether I accept it or not. Don't pull that bullshit on me. It's not going to work. Just because everybody else falls hook, line, and sinker for your innocent act doesn't mean I will."

"What?"

"God, is that the only word you know?" Dean asked exasperatedly, running a hand over his face. "Everybody trusts you, Sam. You're the baby, the one everyone thinks is just so sweet compared to his older brother." When he spoke again, his voice had turned cold. "I'm a bad influence on you, haven't you heard? I'm holding you back. That's what everyone says, what they've _always _said. You were the model son. Dad loves you. More than he loves me, and don't pretend like you don't know it. You were the straight-A student headed for a bright future, and I was the juvenile delinquent that was corrupting you. And you listened to that crap. You didn't let me be the brother. I was going to ruin your chances at Stanford, and you couldn't have that."

"This is all bullshit..." Sam defended.

"No," Dean replied quietly. "It's not. I was never good enough for you. It never made sense that we ended up brothers. We don't work well together. It's time we stop kidding ourselves. We don't even like each other anymore."

* * *

**-Now-**

The hotel was a bust. Nothing. Not even a sign that Sam had ever _been _there. No stray toothbrush or half-used bars of soap. No bags or random pieces of clothing. His bed was even made neatly, like the cleaning lady had come in even though the sign on the outside clearly said 'Do Not Disturb.'

"So..." Dean said calmly, calculating what must have happened. "He got here before us. Ok. Maybe..." He ran a hand through his hair, ignoring John's pitying expression. "Maybe he's on the outskirts. If we go fast enough, then maybe--"

"Dean," John interrupted softly, stepping towards Dean. His oldest son backed away, though.

"Don't," Dean replied. "Just...don't. I really don't want to hear it right now."

"Dean, we have to face the facts that he might be gone."

"No, he's not!" Dean said defensively, his breath suddenly coming difficult. He put his fingers to his temples, rubbing. His head felt like it was going to split open. He must have looked like Sam when he was having a vision.

"Sam..." he muttered. "Come on, man." He didn't know why he thought it would work. "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't. I didn't mean anything I said."

No response, obviously. What was he expecting?

"It's okay, Dean," John comforted.

"What about this is okay?" Dean spat back. "I have to find him, and fast. Otherwise, we're never going to see him again. Now are you with me?"

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

"Why does this sound like you're breaking up with me?" Sam asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Last time I checked, we weren't some high-school couple. You can't just throw me out."

Dean remained silent for a moment, his gaze not wavering. "Why not?"

"Because you're my brother," Sam said loudly. "Because I want you around."

"It doesn't work that way, Sammy," Dean said solemnly.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice shaking a bit, "I'd die for you."

Dean snorted sarcastically, rounding on Sam. "I thought we were being honest with each other."

"I am--"

"No, you're not," Dean said, his voice raising unexpectedly. Sam took an involuntary step back; he hadn't thought the comment would cause Dean to react this way. "You're not that guy, Sam! You're not a martyr! I'm never going to hold you when you cry, and you're never going to die for anybody! It's who we are! And you think that by dying, you can still make everything up to us? Everything you've done over the years?"

"I never said that. You're putting words in my mouth, taking everything out of context."

"Then what is the god damn context?"

"You wouldn't even care if I died for you, would you? I still wouldn't be good enough. You'd still hate me. You always have."

"Don't," Dean hissed, "act like I'm the bad guy there, just because I'm telling you things you don't want to hear. You want to pretend everything is okay, it always will be, that no matter how fucked up our family is you can fix it. You can't, Sam! And when you realized that, you just decided you were giving up on it. We're a family, Sam! You're stuck with us!"

"You think I want this family! You think I asked for this family, for this shit to happen to us! I didn't cause the demon to burn our house down, to cause dad to lose it."

"What makes you think that?"

Sam froze. "Don't..." he warned.

"How do we know it's not because of you?"

"Shut up."

"It was in your room, and next thing we know, mom's dead. How do we know it wasn't because of you? How do we know she didn't die trying to save you? How do we know it wasn't screwing with your head, doing something to you? How do you know you're what you think you are? Maybe by trying to be normal you're just trying to prove to yourself you're not a freak like the rest of us, when you're the one who needs to worry the most."

"So you're saying I shouldn't have been born," Sam asserted. "I'm a freak. That you've only hung aorund me because you're waiting for me to snap. Like I'm a tool of the demon's, I always have been. I'm a spy! I'm not even your brother!"

"I'm just wondering how you know you even have control over your own life." Sam shook his head, his fingers to his temples in an attempt to block out the words. Dean took a step towards him. "How do I know the demon's not just waiting to take it's shot at you the second you're away from this house to use you against us?"

"Stop," Sam said. His head was throbbing, and his heart felt like it was beating way too fast.

"How do I know you're not--"

"Stop!" Sam yelled. "Shut up!" Dean stopped, teeth gritted.

* * *

**-Now-**

Sam's phone rang just as he was walking through the parking lot. Quickly checking the caller ID to see it wasn't Dean, he answered it.

"Yes?" he said, his voice monotone.

"Sammy..." a voice hissed through the reciever. Sam felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.

"What do you want?" Sam demanded.

"I was just checking up on you," the demon continued, his voice smooth, the sound as unpleasant as nails on a chalkboard to Sam. "You are--"

"Of course I am," Sam responded brusquely. "What did you expect?"

"I'll admit I expected a little bit more. I expected a fight. Dean hasn't talked you out of it yet?"

"Dean doesn't know, and if you don't mind I'd like to go now." He would do anything at that point to get away from the voice.

"You didn't tell him?" the demon asked, his voice obviously excited. "Well, isn't that just heartbreaking?"

"Please, I'd like--"

"I _know_ what you'd _like_, Sam," the demon said, his voice suddenly not so amused. "But I swear to you that if you don't pull through on this, you and your family are going down together. Remember what I said about Dean, and what you might end up doing to him if you don't watch out. You don't honesly like that idea, do you?"

Sam took a breath in through his clenched teeth. "No."

"I thought not," the demon continued, the sneer coming through even in his tone. "And, hey, you'll be dead anyway if you don't come. Are you starting to feel that poison yet, Sammy?" Sam didn't answer. "Can you feel it working its way through your veins, just waiting to stop your heart? Feeling dizzy yet? Tired? Having any trouble breathing?" Sam remained silent. He was never going to admit that it was true. He _could_ feel it, every minute of every day. It had been getting worse for the past few days, making it impossible to ignore. "I figure you have..." the demon trailed off "...maybe one, two days left before you get the full effects. Sure, you'll definitely feel it before then, but when it's time it'll hit you so fast you won't even see it coming, and within ten minutes, you'll be gone. Maybe that other side can take over, maybe not. But we can give you the antidote. We can help you. You just need to let us." Sam was pretty sure he was going to throw up right there, whether from the effects of the poison setting in again or pure disgust.

"You have to keep up your end," Sam said, forcing the bile down.

"Or what?" the demon asked curiously. "How are you _possibly_ going to pay me back if I don't?"

"Don't hurt him. Don't kill him." His voice was weak, though he had been trying to sound threatening. He gave up, adding a pathetic, "Please."

"Oh," the demon said, his voice rising in pitch with amusement. "You mean your vision, am I right?" Sam didn't answer. The demon laughed. "You really _are _amusing sometimes, you Winchesters."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked, his heart pounding in his chest. He hated it when the demon used that tone; it always meant he knew something Sam didn't.

"You'll see. Or you won't, depdening on how you decide to act. His life is in your hands, Sam. Don't blow it."

The phone went dead.

* * *

**-Five Years Ago-**

"I can't believe you sometimes!" Sam threw back. "I can't believe how low you'll sink."

"Same here."

"I thought I said shut up!"

"That doesn't mean I have to listen."

"Oh, right, because you're never going to listen to another fucking word I have to say." Dean continued to glare, his feet planted, his fists balled up like he was expecting a fight. "You never minded that I bitched to you about dad."

"Really?" Dean asked with mock curiosity.

"You never minded when I bitched to you about_ anything_. You put up with me because it made you feel good about yourself."

Dean snorted.

"You wanted to feel like the together one. You never wanted to admit how fucked up you were. It made you feel normal, like you were the only sane one in the family, that maybe you'd be the one to survive all this. You were waiting for us to turn on each other and self-destruct."

"Fuck you."

"You had to be the one without issues--"

"Hey, shut the hell up," Dean said angrily. "Don't turn this around on me. It's you that had to be the rebel, the one that never wanted to listen to anything anyone else had to tell you. You had to be the reluctant hero, the misunderstood one. You're not a god damned hero, Sam. You never were, and you never will be."

"I never asked to be!" Sam yelled back, finally feeling something snap inside him. He felt like he had to convince Dean of something, but he didn't know what. All he knew was that he had made a big mistake. He was losing Dean, and fast. He wasn't sure if the damage was fixable. He didn't even know if he wanted to fix it. Wasn't this what he had wanted? He had wanted to leave, without anyone trying to stop him. Wasn't that what was going on? Well, technically, yes, but it was pretty fucking twisted. "I only ever asked for you to fucking _care_! I never wanted to be the hero! You and dad wanted me to be! I just wanted to be a good student, a good person, a good son! Now tell me, for all my efforts, did either of you ever mention me and what I've done? What exam grade did I have to get for you to fucking notice me? What college did I have to get into for you to say 'Good job, Sam! Full scholarship? Congratulations!'? Fuck!" He kicked the wall as hard as he could, and when he looked back, he had seen that Dean's face hadn't changed a bit.

"One of us had to step up, Sammy, and I was that guy. You thought I never paid attention in class, that I never looked at flyers for colleges and said 'Hey, it'd be pretty nice to go there.' But I had bigger things to do. If it comes between my happines and saving someone's life, I'm sure as hell going to save that guy's life. That's what's different about you. You're selfish, Sam. You always have been, ever since we were kids. Hell, I ate Spagettios for a week, every single meal, because you had to have Lucky Charms, and I fucking hate Spagettios!"

"What?" Sam said, not getting the analogy. It had been too long ago and he could barely remember. Dean stood in silence for a moment. "You really hate me that much?" Sam asked him quietly. Dean took a deep breath, looking down at the floor for a few split seconds. The look on his face was impassive. "God," Sam said, "you really_ do_ hate me that much."

"I never said--"

"No, you mean it. You really don't care. You really do hate me."

"I can't hate you, Sam," Dean said simply. "You're doing that job for yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

It means you always need someone else's pity to survive, so that you don't feel like a failure. I think you hate yourself a lot more than you realize."

"That's bullshit," Sam said, but the defense came out sounding weak and pathetic.

"It's not!" Dean threw back loudly. "Your life sucks, your life sucks, you hate your life, on and on, and I'm sick of it! Everyone else doesn't have to be miserable just because you are! Shit happens to all of us, and I'm sick of you using it as an excuse for some fucking attention! Listen to someone else for once in your life!"

"So now we're getting back to the selfish arguement?" Dean let out a strangled yell through his gritted teeth, running a hand through his hair.

"God!" he yelled, turning his back to walk further into his room, and Sam hesitated to follow him. "I really _do_ hate you sometimes!"

"So I've heard," Sam said, his voice hoarse, though still defensive. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the anger was bubbling its way to the surface once more.

"Don't act like I'm the bad guy," Dean said, his back still turned. Sam took a tentative step forward, and his older brother didn't move.

"Look," he started cautiously. "The only thing dad ever told me is that I needed to be more in line, I needed to follow orders, I needed to listen to him without objecting. He would always say 'Why can't you be more like your brother?'" Dean flinched, obviously unaware John had ever said anything of the like.

"And I tried," he continued, "so hard, you have no idea. I focused everything I had to follow you, to be the good son. But I couldn't. That's why I focused on school, because I thought for some stupid reason that would make him proud of me. I was wrong. I don't belong in this family, I never have." He looked down. "So I'm giving up. I surrender. I'm done fighting with you, with dad. You're not. So, Dean, if you want me to go, I'll go." His voice had gained an almost pleading tone. "If you don't care about me, if you don't love me anymore, then just say it. Tell me to leave one more time. I'll leave, right now, without a word. I won't come back, I won't call you. I'll be out of your life forever. Just have the guts to tell me the truth. Do you care about me anymore?"

Dean didn't move. The silence went on for what seemed like an eternity. Sam would always rememeber that long silence, where he had barely breathed for fear he would break the spell and all hell would break loose.

Like it even mattered anymore.

Sam didn't know what he expected Dean to say. He would have expected an "I'm sorry," or "I was wrong," or even an "I want you around, Sam. You know that." He knew better, though, deep down. He should have known what to expect when he asked the question.

But he didn't. He didn't expect it when Dean answered, without even turning to face Sam. "No. I don't."

Sam would never remember exactly what he had done. He was almost sure he had mumbled something quickly like, "If that's what you want," and Dean had nodded, but the details were fuzzy. The only thing he knew for certain was that Dean hadn't turned around. Sam's legs were moving, but he felt numb.

He never saw Dean turn around when he walked through the door. He never heard the faint whisper of, "Wait."

He never saw the stricken look on his father's face when he walked like a robot past him, telling him not to bother calling. He was going to keep his promise.

He never heard Dean say "I'm sorry," as he closed the door.

* * *

**-Now-**

Sam threw his bag into the passenger seat roughly before going over to his own side. His heart was throbbing wildly, and all he could think about was what was going to come. He was scared as hell, and he felt more alone than he ever had in his entire life.

He could barely even get the key into the ignition, he was trembling so hard, and when he did, he could hardly move. All he could think about was all the years he was going to miss. If there was any chance at all he could come back, that he could fight it, would it be the same, or would he have missed out on too much? He thought about five years. Hey, no big deal. He and Dean had lived apart for four before.

Six years. A wild card.

Ten years. No, that would be too long. If it took him ten years to get out, he wouldn't come back. They would have forgotten him by then. He'd be a distant memory, and the only way of remembering him would be in their heads; Dean had never been one for pictures or videos. Time could heal all wounds.

He could be an uncle by then for all he knew. He wondered vaguely how Dean would explain that one to the kid.

_"Yeah, your Uncle Sam, my baby brother, went off to join the demon that killed your grandma. He finally snapped one night and just ran off to them. We don't really talk about him that much. Don't bring him up at family gatherings, son."_ The thought made Sam laugh for a second, but it felt strange, forced. His chest was too tight, and he shut his eyes, his chest constricting once more, his breath coming in gasps. God, was he freaking _crying_? If Dean could only have seen him like this. The most Sam would have gotten was a slap and a "Snap out of it, dumbass!" Was he crazy to think Dean would remember him?

_"Time heals all wounds," _he repeated to himself. That's what he remembered hearing so many times.

_"That's stupid," _he remembered thinking when he was eight years old. _"Dad never forgot about mom."_

Was Dean ever going to forget him? Sam guessed he hoped so, so Dean could move on with his life, but we just didn't know. That selfish part was still around.

He didn't _want_ to be forgotten. He wanted to know his neices and nephews if he ever got any. He wanted to be Dean's best man at his wedding. He wanted to see John be a grandpa.

But that was never going to happen, he reminded himself. It was too late. The demon had crushed any hopes he had of that long ago, and Sam found a whole new hatred of him.

_"You're going to die anyway," _the demon had said. The poison was still in his system. He could feel it. Maybe he didn't have to go back to the demon. Maybe if he held them off long enough he could just die there, in their hotel room, with his family. It wouldn't be much longer anyway. Wasn't that how he wanted to go, with Dean by his side, instead of a long time later, by someone else's hands when he had outgrown his use?

He wouldn't go, wherever you went after you died. He was staying behind, no matter what. He needed to see his family. He didn't care about the price.

But he wouldn't die on his own terms, no matter what he did. The demon knew he didn't have the guts to kill himself; Dean would be left helpless then, and they would kill him, too, without hesitation.

He had no other choice.

His foot reached for the gas pedal, his face composed again. In surprise, he realized he had a tear on his face. He hastily wiped it away, but he was in for the shock of his life when he heard the voice behind him.

"Road trip, Sammy?" The voice was cold. "How come I wasn't invited?"

**Author's Note: Happy New Year! I really don't want to go back to school. Ugh!**

**Anyway, not much to say except review, please.**

**Up Next: Like I'm going to tell you.**

**Until next time...**


	51. Make Me Understand

**Chapter 51: Make Me Understand**

"Dean?" Sam gasped in surprise, a hand going to his chest. "Holy shit you scared me."

Dean looked far from amused, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the seat in the back. Sam had to crane his neck just to get a glimpse of him.

"You are _so_ lucky," Dean said in his normal, deadly, pissed-off voice, his face truly threatening in the shadows, "that I don't beat the living shit out of you right here and now."

Sam swallowed. "This is not what you think..." he tried, thinking that maybe there was a miniscule chance Dean would buy it.

He didn't. Dean smiled without humour, the smirk almost creepy. If Sam hadn't known better, he would have thought Dean was one of them, a demon. He had the look down, that was for sure. His eyes were glinting horribly; Sam had only seen Dean looking this scary on a very rare occasion.

"What _do_ I think, Sam?" Dean asked in an eerily calm voice. Oh, yeah, Sam could _definitely_ see why the demon might want Dean as well. He would definitely not need as much training in intimidation as Sam had. Dean had all the factors they had taught him; he had the sense of control most had to work for months to get. Sam was suddenly having flashbacks to St. Louis, when the Shapeshifter had pretended to be Dean and had attempted to torture and kill Sam.

"I'm not going anywhere. I just decided to..." he swallowed again, his throat suddenly going dry. Dean's gaze just intensified.

"Climb out the bathroom window when dad wasn't looking so you could take a little sunset drive?" Dean continued, suddenly lifting one hand to grab something next to him. "What was the gun for?" he asked casually, playing with one of the mechanisms on it. "Loaded and everything. Expecting any company, Sammy?"

"I--"

"Drive, Sam," Dean commanded.

"What?"

"We're going somewhere we can talk. Now, drive."

"Wait a second," Sam asked incredulously, "you're freaking kidnapping me? Are you_ serious_?" Dean cocked the gun, examining it closely before looking back at Sam.

"Well," he said simply, "yes. You could put it that way."

"You're not going to shoot me if I don't listen, are you?"

"Drive the goddamn car, Sammy."

"Dean, you're scaring me."

"Not a nice feeling, is it?" Dean hissed. "Now I believe I told you to_ drive the freaking car_."

Sam put the car into reverse, and Dean simply told him to go left. Sam knew where they were going immediately. The clearing Dean had found him in early that morning.

"So..." Sam started uncomfortably, trying to ignore Dean's contsant gaze. He was still holding the gun, and though he would never say it out loud, it was a threat. He wouldn't shoot to kill, but he would do whatever it took.

"I don't believe I told you to speak yet," Dean said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"How'd you know where I'd be?" Sam asked nonetheless. Dean stopped his toying with the gun for a second, looking Sam up and down.

"I know what I'm doing," was all he said.

"What was your tip-off?"

"Dad said you would go back for your bags at the hotel room. I'm not stupid. They were never_ in _our room. You gave them to dad. He had them somewhere else, somewhere you would find them. He put them in the car I'm using, the stupid bastard. He figured I wouldn't go near the thing, let alone drive it, unless I totally had to. I figured you'd have to loop around to the parking lot, but you'd come in from the back just in case. While I was checking out the hotel room, you'd make a clean getaway. So I just faked a panic attack, snuck out on dad through the bathroom (nice idea, by the way), went out to the back, broke into the car, and here I am." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm good." He smiled humorlessly. "I got it all right, didn't I?"

Sam grudgingly nodded.

"I can't believe he was in on the thing the entire fucking time," Dean said angrily, shaking his head. "I can't believe the bastard had the guts to sell me out." He shook his head again, his features contorted with disgust. "How long was he in on it?"

Sam took a deep breath, hoping maybe Dean would just change the subject on his own. Dean raised an eyebrow once more, crushing that idea.

"Pretty much since the beginning," he answered. "In the restaurant, I didn't know he was going to help me. I think he kept changing his mind or something. But after our fight, I was about to go into the bathroom and sneak away. He knew what I was going to do. He gave me five minutes to get away, and I took it."

Dean sat in silence for a moment, studying Sam in the mirror. His face was considerably changed from the beginning of the conversation, though still hard; his eyes were less cold. He was far from understanding, but at least he wasn't about to rip Sam's spleen out.

"Look," he said, "about our arguement earlier, it shouldn't have made you do something this stupid. You can't just waltz off just because of what we said."

"This is not about that," Sam insisted. "Trust me."

"Yes, it is. This is about that. And it's about what I said the night you left, how I said you weren't a martyr. Ever since then, you've been out to prove it to me that you could be, and it's not worth it. You think this is the ultimate--"

"Oh, shut up," Sam said with a sigh. "I don't need this."

"Do_ not_ start that shit with me," Dean warned. "Do not tell me to shut up. You were the one that wanted to--"

"You assume I forgot what you said?" Sam said. "_No_. But this has nothing to do with that."

"Then what _does_ it have to do with?"

Just looking at Dean's face, Sam was pretty sure he knew anyway, but there was no way he was going to say it. He pulled the car over where he remembered taking the turn into the woods. Dean's face still looked expectant.

"Can I get out of the car?" he asked. He felt the claustrophobia kicking in. For the first time, he felt uncomfortable with Dean sitting that close.

"Watch out," Dean warned, keeping his gun at ready as they both climbed out of the car. Sam shivered at first at the cold air outside, and pulled his jacket closer.

Dean watched Sam's every move closely, but still didn't catch him fast enough to keep him from making a grab for his gun. He and Dean pointed them at each other at the same time.

"Watch it, Sam," Dean demanded loudly. "I swear to god, I will shoot you in the shoulder if I have to."

"You don't get it, do you?" Sam asked.

"I think I get you a lot more than you realize," Dean said, his voice suddenly a lot softer.

"No," Sam denied, "you don't."

"Sam, I'm trying to help you here."

"You don't get it!" Sam yelled, and Dean looked away, rolling his eyes.

"Yes," Dean shouted right back, "I do!" He bit his lip frustratedly. "I know you. I've known you all your life. Now, look..." he held his hands up, leaning forward to lay his gun down on the ground. "Ok," he said, "now can we talk?" Grudgingly, Sam put his down, too. "You don't have to do this," Dean said. "Not for me."

Sam mustered up a snort, furrowing his brow and adopting an exasperated look. He backed away from Dean slightly, getting closer to the car. Dean mirrored every move he made. "What makes you think this has everything to do with _you_ all of a sudden?"

"I'm not an idiot," Dean snarled. "I saw you making that phone call. I heard my name. That's why dad agreed to help you; because you pulled some 'save your favorite son' crap, didn't you? That's why you've been weird around me."

"You're wrong," Sam lied.

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to die. You have to stop this self-hatred shit."

"Stop," Sam warned.

"No, you're being stupid."

"Stop!"

"If you go down, so do I," Dean insisted, his eyes wide. He was determined, his mind made up, and very little anybody could say was going to change his mind. He barely even noticed how angry Sam was, his fists clenched at his sides. "We go down together." Sam was now advancing on him, but he kept going. "We go down fighting, Sam. I'm not letting you out of this that--"

He didn't finish his sentence. A few seconds before Sam reached him, something pushed him sideways forcefully. He collided roughly with the side of the car, his arm immediately throbbing. He felt like someone five times bigger than him had slammed him into the metal.

"Stop!" Sam yelled, pushing Dean back into it just as he had begun to recover. Sam held him there with a forceful hand, and try as he might he couldn't get away. "Stop doing that! Stop saying stuff like that!" Even to Dean, it looked like Sam was about to crack. Of course, that was nothing compared to what he was feeling. Every emotion he would have thought possible was coming to the surface. God, he hated Dean so much right then. He hated everything about him, from his smartass commments to his cocky smile to his way of, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, caring about Sam. He hated everything.

Then why was he doing this? "Do you realize," he asked in a hiss, "how stupid you are?"

"What?" was all Dean could manage. His face was a mask of shock, his mouth open as he tried to speak.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" he demanded. "Why do you insist on staying with me? You _know_ what's going to happen to me--to you."

"What are you _talking _about?" Dean asked, his eyes wide, scared. His brow was furrowed, and he was holding his breath.

Sam let him go, stepping back, staggering. He ran a hand over his face as Dean watched, still leaning heavily against the car door. He waited for a response apprehensively, still recovering from Sam's sudden outburst. And had he really used his powers or was Dean just imagining it?

"I'm talking about what's happening to me," Sam said in a soft voice, looking at Dean's face again. It was unsettling, seeing his brother like that, totally surrendering. He should never have had to look like that. "What I'm becoming, no matter how hard I try to stop it."

"What?" Dean said disbelievingly. Sam looked frustrated to no end.

"Forget it." He turned to leave, but Dean moved forward quickly, grabbing him by the arm. "Let me go, Dean." His voice was warning.

"No," Dean said, still not understanding. Sam gritted his teeth. He had to get away, to save what was left of his plan. He needed Dean gone and there was one way to do that. It had worked before.

"What?" Sam asked in a fake surprised voice. "You're_ stopping me_? You're not just going to push me away like you usually do?"

"You're the one that's trying to push me away," Dean said immediatelly, catching on to what Sam was trying to pull. Sam remembered to add that to his list of things he hated about Dean: his ability to practically read Sam's mind with no effort whatsoever.

"Bullshit," Sam threw back.

"You_ honestly_ think that's going to work?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam claimed.

"I'm trying to save your life," Dean said, and the desperation was starting to shine through, as hard as he tried to hide it.

"I don't _need_ your help right now," Sam said with an edge to his voice, "or your pity."

"Too bad," Dean said harshly. "I'm your brother. You don't have to die for me."

"I thought you didn't care," Sam said in a softer voice. It seemed to hit home harder with Dean than the angrier remarks. Sam knew he regretted what he had said; that's what made it the perfect subject to piss him off instantly.

"Stop," Dean said warningly. "We don't have to talk about this, not--"

"Don't worry about me. I'm not a martyr, remember?"

"Oh, so now we're getting into this..." Dean said, raising an eyebrow in exasperation.

"Apparently--"

"I don't get why we're still arguing about this," Dean continued. "I thought we agreed a long time ago that we had forgiven each other for that!"

"We never said that!" Sam agrued. "You thought that! You saw the unspoken vow! I just never brought it up. I didn't_ want_ to get into another fight! I didn't _want _you to hate me anymore!"

"I don't hate you," Dean said defensively. He sighed at Sam's disbelieving expression. "Are you ever going to forgive me for that?" he asked.

"That's not the question you need to be asking," Sam replied simply, confusing Dean more. "I'm not going to forget it. Not when I know you still mean it." One look at Dean's shocked expression was enough. He shrugged and turned around, intending to head off then.

"Wait!" Dean said loudly, and this time Sam heard him. "You mean you thought I actually_ meant_ that stuff?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" Sam was definitely annoyed now. Dean grabbed his arm firmly. "Let me go," Sam growled, but Dean held on as tight as he could, so hard most people would be cringing in pain, but Sam was too proud for that.

"You know I could never--" Dean defended.

"But you did," Sam said, and Dean took a deep breath, turning away briefly, and when he looked back he saw Sam walking away again. He once again grabbed him by the arm, but he certainly wasn't prepared for Sam's reaction. He twisted Dean's arm around, pulling him forward, and then kicked him in the chest, sending him falling backwards to the ground, out of breath and surprised.

"What was_ that_ for?" he gasped.

"I told you," Sam spat, his voice surprisingly hostile, "to let me go." His tone was clearly giving away the fact that he wasn't taking any shit now.

"You can't leave like this," Dean said as a last resort.

"Yes," Sam said, "I can." He started to turn again, and Dean got up, following him.

"You don't have to," he offered.

"Yes," Sam repeated. "I do."

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Dean asked, still keeping pace with Sam. They were slowly walking away from the car, along the side of the road, but neither or them was really paying attention to their surroundings.

"Why am I doing this to myself?" Sam muttered, almost to himself. "I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do," Dean insisted, and Sam rolled his eyes. "You always have a choice. You can choose to go off and ruin your life, to lay down and die, or you can fight."

"Look, it's over!" Sam said loudly, coming to a halt finally. "I'm done with it, all of it! I'm sick and tired, and I don't want to do this anymore! I can't do this anymore! I'm through with fighting! I don't want to do it!"

For a second Dean just stared at him, his gaze pitying. Sam shook his head; pity was the last thing he wanted from Dean. "I can help you," Dean said. "We can just sit down and talk about this." It was too late, though. Sam was beyond comforting, beyond reasoning.

"We can't," he said.

"Why not?" Dean asked, raising his hands from his sides to emphasize the point.

"It's too late," was all Sam would reply with, glancing out the corner of his eyes. Dean followed his gaze.

"There's nobody there, Sammy," Dean said anxiously. "Why are you so paranoid all of a sudden?"

"It's not them I'm worried about," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. He looked like he was already regretting saying it.

Dean didn't understand. "Then what _are_ you worried about?"

"Forget it," Sam muttered, continuing to walk away.

"No," Dean said insistently, following in step once more. "Tell me."

"I said forget it."

"What are you so scared of? What do you think is going to happen to you that's so bad you won't tell me? Hell, you told me how you pinned a woman to the ceiling but you won't tell me what they did to you."

"You can guess what they did to me," Sam said simply. "And plus, it's not me I'm scared for."

"So it's me?" Dean scoffed, more than a little rellieved. "I can handle myself. I've fought theses guys before,_ you've_ fought these guys before."

"I don't mean from them," Sam said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He avoided eye contact, nonetheless. "If I lose control again--"

"Then we'll manage," Dean said in an attempt to sound comforting that was sure to come back and bite him in the ass. The tone didn't work on him. He didn't know how to comfort people; he was much better at scare tactics. "Hey," he continued, faking a smile and trying to make it reach his eyes, "I've fought you before when you've lost control. I can kick your ass, possessed or not." The attempt to lighten the mood was unsuccessful. Sam's face didn't change. "What?"

"They're going to kill you," Sam said in a monotone, "and they're going to make me do it if I don't cooperate."

Dean snorted in false bravado. "Well, they're going to have to catch me first," he said.

"Trust me," Sam said, his serious expression in deep contrast to Dean's smile, "that's the easy part."

"Sorry, Sam," Dean said, "that's still not a good enough reason for what you were about to pull."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. "You're never going to get it," he said, coming to a halt again. "You choose not to, so you're just going to deny it; you're just going to keep cracking jokes! Can you take something seriously for once in your life?"

"Whoa," Dean said quickly, surprised by Sam's sudden, unexpected outburst. "Calm down there." Sam closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, frustrated to no end. "Look at me. I'm listening to you. I'm taking this seriously. _Make_ me understand; _make_ me get it. I'm not going to unless you tell me."

Sam ran a hand through his hair and turned away for a split second, gathering his thoughts. His breathing was ragged, desperate. "Do you realize," he said quietly, "how easy it would be for me to kill you right now?"

Dean would have laughed at the pure absurdity of such a morbid and insane comment, but but something about Sam's tone had the oppostite effect. It sent shivers down his spine. "What?"

"Ever since you brought me back, nothing's been the same. Even I'm not the same person I used to be. What you said that night five years ago was right. I'm a tool to him, a machine, a soldier. I always have been. He's using me and all the other kids. We can fight for him. That's what we're meant to do. We don't have minds of our own. We _don't _have control."

"Then why haven't you killed me yet, then?" Dean asked, and instead of making Sam feel better like he had hoped it just seemed to make it even worse.

"I've come really close, you know," he said grudgingly. "Do you know how close I've come, how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night trying to remember why I was fighting against the demon in the first place? How many times I've been so angry I've almost lost control and killed someone, even you?"

"You couldn't kill me," Dean said matter-of-factly. "You know I'd--"

And with that, Sam lashed out with his inhuman speed. He twisted Dean's arm and kicked him in the chest in the manner he had before, but a lot scarier. Dean tried to kick out at Sam, but the youngest Winchester dodged it easily, while grabbing the knife from Dean's boot that he always kept with him. He kicked Dean forcefully in the chest once more to keep him on the ground, grabbed the gun and held it to Dean's head while placing the knife at his neck.

The scary thing about it was that it had all happened with in a matter of a few seconds.

"Three seconds," Sam said calmly, answering Dean's unspoken question. He wasn't even out of breath. He was showing no signs he had done anything more than taken a few steps forward. Dean still had the wind knocked out of him. "When did dad teach us anything like that?" Sam continued. "They wouldn't accept any less than perfection. Their training is fast and intense, and you have to do it right every single time without even hesitating."

Dean tried to flip him in the same manner Sam had when Dean had first come to Stanford, kicking him in the chest, but Sam had twisted his lower arm with lighting agility, and before Dean knew it he was face down, his arm pulled behind his back painfully.

"That night in the bar," Sam said, "you didn't see anything. They changed me. Everything feels different." He let Dean go, standing up hesitantly, looking around like he didn't totally remember where he was. "If I get angry even a little..." he said, almost as a reminder to himself. He shook his head, his focus back to Dean. He held out a hand to help him up. There was no apology. Dean didn't expect one; he had asked to understand, and Sam was only respecting that request. "They're going to do it again."

"I'm not going to let them, Sam," Dean said, but it was too late. Sam wasn't listening anymore. He definitely looked like he was about to crack. He bit his lip. "I'm not going to let them kill you."

"That's not going to do it," Sam replied in a choked voice that sounded surprisingly distant. When he finally met Dean's eyes, the result scared him. Dean could finally see all those sleepless nights, all of the constant stress, the fear, the pain, the memories he wanted so badly to forget, all written in his eyes. He could see it all weighing him down, crushing him. "Running isn't going to do it. It's a lose-lose situation here."

"No," Dean denied. "Not if we stay. Not if we fight."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Sam said. His voice was dead, devoid of emotion. Dean was trying so hard to keep eye contact, to keep looking into his little brother's eyes when he looked like that. But he needed to make his point clear; otherwise, Sam would give up, lose all hope. He couldn't make Sam go through that. Not like this.

"Yes, it does," Dean said, louder this time to make his point. "It always matters. I'm not going to let you give up, to just lay down and die."

"I don't have a choice!" Sam said loudly, his voice edged with a bit of hysteria. He looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. "You can't do anything for me. No matter what you do, it's not going to save me, so stop trying!"

"Why not?!" Dean yelled back.

"Because I'm not going to drag you down with me!"

"You're not," Dean said. "I can help you, now why won't you fucking let me for once?!" Sam took a deep breath. He paused before answering, his eyes desperate. He was as white as a ghost, and his hands were shaking. As hard as he tried to hide it, he was about to snap.

"Because," he said, his voice cracking, "I'm dying."

The news hit Dean harder than Sam had when he'd attacked him. Every bit of breath in his lungs blew out immediately, and he struggled to take any back in. He was frozen to the spot, his entire body numb with shock. He shook his head in denial, but he couldn't ignore the look in Sam's eyes, telling him it was the truth. He wanted to believe Sam was lying to him, to look away and ignore Sam's gaze, but it was as if Sam was using his psychic powers in some way to make him see the truth.

"No..." he meant to say with conviction, to laugh it off, but it came out as a rush of air from his lips. Sam took a deep breath of air before answering, like he was about to do a cannonball in ice-cold water. He was getting ready to take the plunge.

"The poison never left my system," he explained in a monotone voice, as if he was a history teacher explaining a topic he knew very little about, but continuing, taking pauses to remember what he did know. He sounded like he was partly trying to give_ himself_ a reality check, too. "It'll take a few days to work it's way through, and it'll work slower than it was designed to, but it'll do the truth. The demon told me that if I fought back and won it wouldn't matter. I'll be dead anyway."

Dean shook his head again; it was the only sort of movement his body would perform, and he couldn't stop. Maybe if he did it enough, if he denied everything enough, it wouldn't be true. "No," he repeated, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, barely wanting to move at all. He had to really focus to form words at all. "He's bluffing. He has to be. It's what he does. Meg lied to us about dad being dead. He's just _messing_ with us."

Sam gave him a 'You actually believe that? What are you on?' look."He's not," he said. "I can feel it, man."

"He wants you alive, though," Dean said, speaking through the lump in his throat, which was growing more painful by the second. He was merely making excuses, and he knew that, but he couldn't give in to this reality. He couldn't. But Sam was there to pull him back in.

"Of course he does," he said. "But if he can't have me, nobody can."

"How much..." Dean said, fighting to keep a decent composure. "How much time do we have?"

Sam let out a humorless laugh, his hand once more moving through his hair in his normal nervous fidgeting way. "Not enough," he answered simply.

"Not enough," Dean echoed numbly, hearing his ragged breathing but not quite feeling the effects of the air in his lungs. His head was still spinning as if someone was pressing his head underwater, drowning him. "There has to be something we can do. Dad has to know someone that can help."

"He won't."

"We can't know unless we try," Dean said, trying as hard as he could to latch onto a bit of hope. Too bad Sam had given up that a long time ago.

"We can."

"You're not going to die."

"It's not something you have control over."

"Dammit," Dean spat, kicking the dirt as hard as he could. "Don't say that!" His sadness and denial had turned into rage as quickly as turning on a light switch.

'I'm sorry," Sam said, biting his lip.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked.

"About what?"

"You know what," Dean said. "Don't play dumb with me."

Sam paused, still looking down at his shoes. "I didn't want you to know. You didn't need--"

"So you were just planning to act normal," Dean asked with an accusatory tone, "all the way up until you freaking dropped dead?!"

"Well," Sam said, his defense already weak, "I wasn't exactly planning on staying that long."

"Why?"

"Have you listened to a freaking word that I've said?" Sam asked, exasperated and showing one of the first signs of emotion he'd shown since awhile ago in their arguement.

"Yes, I have," Dean said. "I just don't get how you couldn't tell me this, how you couldn't tell me you were _dying_."

"I did what I thought I had to do," Sam defended vehemently.

Dean sighed tiredly. "I am so_ sick_ of that bullshit, Sam. Don't use that excuse. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you let me do this." Sam looked caught off guard, confused even. He motioned with his hand for Dean to elaborate. "I messed up this week," he said quietly, almost hoping Sam couldn't hear him. "I was an asshole to you, and you just sat there and took it, everything I threw at you. You_ let_ me yell at you when you _knew_ what was going to happen. How could you do that?" Sam looked like he didn't know how to respond. "It's just...I could have used those days with you, you know?" He had to look away, already embarrassed for opening up that much.

"I know..." Sam said. "I know this is the wrong time to mention this whole morbid, dying thing, but maybe...maybe it's the best option we have right now." Dean looked up.

"That's not funny, Sam," he said, hoping it was just some bad joke. "Stop it."

"I'm serious," Sam said, some more life showing up in his eyes, but under the circumstances Dean couldn't stand the irony of that.

"How is your dying our best option?" Dean asked, slowly, as if he was addressing a five-year-old.

"The lesser of two evils." Dean smiled in denial, trying to pretend it was a sick prank; it was the only way he was going to deal with this. "We can do it now," Sam continued quickly, as if he had to get the words out fast or he would never say them. Either that or he was hoping he was speaking so fast Dean wouldn't hear the actual words but get the message burned into his brain with subliminal messaging and think it was his idea. "At least then it'll be over quickly. Otherwise it'll be long and harder on us both."

"You're crazy," Dean interrupted. "Have I ever told you that before?"

"Of course, you'll be left wide open, but you can handle--"

"Whoa!" Dean said over Sam. "Hold your crazy-ass horses! Who said I was going to do it?"

"Look, I need you to cooperate here."

"No," Dean said loudly. "You can't honestly think that I'll do this."

"I can hope," Sam sad, his voice starting to go uneven.

"You can hope that I'll kill you?"

Sam was still looking down, away from Dean, who moved closer to him, grabbing his shoulders to get Sam's attention.

"I'm tired," Sam said, almost in a mumble. "I can't do this anymore."

"Sam, I get it. I do..." Dean tried to comfort, but Sam's forehead just creased in anger and he shoved Dean away from him.

"You can't say that," he said. "You_ don't_ get it! It won't let me eat, it won't let me sleep, it won't let me think on my own. Every second of the day it's there, reminding me it's never going to leave me alone. It's killing me and I want it to stop!" He bit his lip, closing his eyes, putting a hand over his face. Dean tentatively approached him, putting a hand on Sam's upper arm. That was as close to comforting he thought he could get.

"There are other ways to make it stop," he said. "There has to be something else we haven't found yet. You don't have to kill your--"

"I don't want to die, Dean!" Sam yelled, pulling away once more. "I'm freaking terrified! I'm scared _every second_ of the day! I don't want to go back, and I don't want to die! I don't want to leave you! I don't want to have to watch it every time I get mad!" As if he had just reminded himself, he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. To Dean's surprise, it didn't seem to be working. Sam threw his arm out to one side, and Dean had to jump away before the shattered glass from John's car door hit him full on. Sam didn't even seem to notice; all Dean could tell about him was that he looked pissed off to no end.

Dean ducked again when Sam threw another arm out, but this time all that happened was a deep scratch appeared in the bark of one of the trees. Noticing what was happening, probably, Sam clutched his head, falling to the ground on his knees. Dean started forward, but Sam held a hand up for him not to come any further.

"Go, Dean," Sam said softly, his voice choked, and it was then that Dean noticed something was wrong. He was breathing wildly, and Dean was afraid he was about to have a breakdown.

Dean was still in shock. This was ridiculous; Sam didn't do this. He didn't show signs of weakness, not in front of Dean. He didn't act like anything was out of control.

Yet, there he was, at his breaking point, the time when he needed someone the most, and Dean was horrified. He didn't know what to do; it hadn't been an issue before. He'd never had to comfort Sam. Sam didn't need comforting. The entire idea was new to him, and he felt himself wanting to turn around, to walk away from it like he always did. That was what he had done before, what he _would_ have done before.

Then why were his legs moving him forward towards Sam? Why was he hitting the ground next to his baby brother?

"Listen," he said, his voice as quiet as he could make it. "I'm not going to let you go back to them, Sammy," he said. "I'm not going to let you go, and I'm not going to let you die. I know you think you don't have a choice, but you do." Sam was looking at him now, and he had calmed down a bit, though his hands were shaking. "You can give up, or you can fight. And if you want to fight, I'll be there with you; I will do everything I can do to make sure they don't get you. Or you can go back to them and know for the rest of your life that you laid down and died. You let them knock you down and kick you."

Sam closed his eyes for a brief second and smiled, though why Dean didn't know. He bit his lip afterwards and it was only then that he realized a tear had escaped from the corner of Sam's closed eye, as hard as he had tried to stop it. He took a deep breath, and then looked at Dean briefly, as if he was apologizing.

He hadn't done so in over eight years, at least not in front of Dean, and there he was. Dean was almost sure of it. Not that he was full-out sobbing or anything. Dean would have to shoot himself if that were the case. But still, there he was, looking like a total asshole, just sitting there, but try as he might, the idea of getting any closer to Sam made him cringe. 

_"I'm never going to hold you when you cry, and you're never going to die for anybody! It's who we are!"_

But still, he did inch closer, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, which somehow only seemed to make it worse.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, sounding surprisingly calm. "I messed everything up, didn't I?" He finally looked directly at Dean, and he really wasn't crying that much. A silent tear had made it past his barrier, though, and he was breathing so raggedly it was a wonder he could still take air in.

"It's ok," Dean said. "I promise, everything's going to be okay."

And though neither one of them believed it, they at least pretended like they did as Dean hugged Sam for the second time since they were kids. "It's going to be okay," he repeated.

* * *

What are families for? 

There are many definitions of the word family, ranging from: "a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head," "a group of persons of common ancestry," or even "a group of things related by common characteristics such as a closely related series of elements or chemical compounds." But most know the real definition: people we are stuck with whether we like it or not.

Every moment past the very second of birth, a child, no matter how much we try to hide it or deny it, is linked with the people who share the same genetic traits with them, a.k.a. their 'family'. From that point on simple human instinct tells us to protect those individuals we are randomly selected to be paired with, whether it's against our better judgment or not. We love those individuals, no matter what they act like, look like, or what happens to them. No matter what shit they get into, we always have to at least try to help them.

Dean really did try, his whole life, but no matter what he did, it never was enough for the people he loved. The term 'family' had never been one he had been taught the real meaning of. But then again, it wasn't something you could be taught. It was something you had to experience for yourself.

He never got it right, he finally realized that night. He wasn't perfect. He never would be. But as he looked back on those five years ago, when he had done the worst thing he could have, he knew he had messed up more than words could explain.

* * *

**One Year Ago (to the day)**

This was always the hardest part after breaking into a house: sneaking around without being noticed. He had an especially bad feeling about this one; his heart was beating so loudly everyone for a five-mile radius must have heard it. He swallowed, once more wondering why he couldn't have just knocked on the front door. The answer was a cross between the feeling that this was the most natural thing to do for him and the feeling he would get the door slammed in his face.

There was a creak in the floorboards and he almost jumped, something very uncharacteristic of him. His head jerked to the side, his eyes scanning the dark hallway. He knew somehow this was what he should have felt like if he had lived there, but the pit in his stomach kept growing. He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment; he had sworn to himself he would stay composed during the whole conversation, and past that.

Number one rule: Never bring up that night. _Ever._

Then someone grabbed him from behind, which was not surprising, considering her looked like he was about to rob the place. He definitely fit the profile, plus it was too dark in there to see anything whatsoever. Still, though Sam definitely couldn't see his face, he recognized the man who had attacked him immediately, and he already felt the nerves building up again. He used that to his advantage. The fight was short, and to the point.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger," he said, feeling a wave of relief wash over him at finally seeing his brother's face up close after all that time, and he quickly looked him up and down to see if he had changed.

He had. He had cut his hair into some nerdy little colege-boy-bowl-cut type thing, and Dean could have sworn he had gotten taller. Last time he had seen Sam, he was still looking down on him.

"Dean?" Sam asked, acting as if he hadn't recognized who it was after a few seconds, like he hadn't known who he was about to beat the crap out of.

_Don't kid yourself, Sammy, _he thought.

"You scared the crap out of me," Sam said, and Dean smiled, and it was half-faked. The other half was happy to finally see Sam after all those years, even though he knew he didn't deserve a second chance.

"That's because you're out of practice," he said.

* * *

He had never made it up to Sam, and he knew it. He never had deserved that second chance, even though Sam knew he had only made a mistake. One mistake, and he was hated forever by the one person he had never meant to hurt. 

A mistake, that's what it had been. Just a horrible mistake. He had kept his promise to himself, though. He had never brought it up again, and because of that it had never been fixed. There was still that wedge between them and it would be there for awhile. Sam wasn't ready to talk about it, and neither was he.

He would let Sam bring it up, let him forgive when he wanted to, if ever. For now, all he could do was this, stay with Sam and keep telling him everything was okay, even though he knew it wasn't. It never had been and it never would be.

That was what hope was, he guessed. Overcoming that, and going on anyway, even when everything was messed up. Even when you knew things weren't going to be fine. When you knew that you weren't going to make it through another year together.

Of course, he didn't know how true that last statement would be. He didn't know just how wrong things would go. Even if he had known what was going to happen to his family at that time, there was nothing he could have done.

So he just kept on telling himself, "Everything's going to be ok."

**Author's Note: Ok, so not the best chapter I've written; in fact, it's been a pain in the ass. I ran out of new adjectives and ways to say 'yelled' about halfway through, if you notice. I'm sick, with a fever of 102 degrees, so give me a break. This is the longest chapter I've ever had in this story so far, though. Almost 7,000 words. I just didn't know where to cut it in half, so I decided what the hell?**

**I know that last part sounded a little ominous and a bit depressing, but that was the point, to keep you guessing. Just what is going to go wrong? I'll tell you this much, and you probably will have figured this out anyway: it has something to do with the vision Sam had WAY back when. There's a big chance they've changed something in it, but what is it that they've changed inadventently? What do you think it is?**

**And I promise Sam and Dean are going to have a long talk about the night Sam left from college, but it might be a few chapters away. About 3 if I don't cut.**

**Review, please.**

**Until next time...**


	52. Trust Me

**Chapter 52: Trust Me**

**A/N: Sorry it took me this long to get the chapter up, and I know it's pretty much a transition chapter. I'm sick...again. I hate this.**

The car ride was spent in silence for the five minutes it took. Neither of them dared to even look at one another, much less say anything. Sam had given up the driver's seat to Dean, who was examining the absence of a window on his side, being careful to avoid the pieces of shattered glass littering the seat. Almost every bit of the window had been blown apart with such force that the shards had become imbedded in spots all over the truck's interior.

"So..." Dean started as he pulled into the hotel's parking lot. He cut the gas, giving up the attempt at breaking Sam out of his depressed staring. He rolled his eyes as he reached for the doorknob.

"Dad's going to kill me," Sam said without much feeling, his gaze still absently fixed on the dashboard. He shook his head. "I can't believe I blew out the freaking window."

"It's nothing that can't be fixed," Dean answered, waiting for Sam to get out of the car, but he sill just sat there.

"He's still going to kill me," Sam said.

"Trust me," Dean assured sourly, leaning back in his seat, "that's the least the lying bastard has to worry about. He can live with a broken window."

"I didn't mean to. I just--"

"Yeah, I know."

"I couldn't help it."

"I know," Dean repeated. "And I take this as an 'I'm not going to try to run off in the middle of the night again'?" He raised an eyebrow and Sam smiled wryly, resting his forehead in his hand. He sighed.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I promise I'm not."

Dean nodded. "Well," he said. "Alright, then. That doesn't mean I'm not going to watch you like a hawk, but alright."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Sam replied and pushed his door open, and Dean took that as his queue to follow. "So I guess, in that case, I won't get that far anyway."

"Damn straight," Dean confirmed. "Because I _will_ beat the crap out of you."

Sam snorted, throwing Dean a 'You'd try,' look. "I didn't hurt you when I..." He gestured with his arms to imply 'threw you into a car.' Dean scoffed, which just made his ribs hurt even more. He wouldn't admit just how hard Sam had hit him against the car and how much it had hurt.

"No," Dean insisted while trying to subtly get his breath back. "What about you?" he asked in an attempt to take the focus off him.

"What _about_ me?" Sam asked, obviously not appreciating the change of topic. He'd had enough talking about himself and his problems; he just wanted to shut up about it, and he gave Dean a glare to match as he started up the stairs to their room.

"I did kind of throw you into a brick wall a few times," Dean said as he followed close behind.

"Not to mention," Sam added sourly in a mock-happy voice, "the fact that I have a deadly poison pumping through my veins that's going to kill me in a few days' time." Just being reminded of that made Dean's stomach clench and he had to try really hard to keep from flinching.

"We're going to figure something out." Dean handed the key to Sam as he realized Sam didn't have the key anymore. The youngest Winchester stood there for a second with his hand on the doorknob.

"Of course we will," he said quietly, and nodded to himself once before pushing the door open. The hotel room looked strangely empty, like it usually did when they first came into a room, not like they had been living thee for a few days. Sam threw his bag down on the bed and let himself fall face-first onto it.

"Why'd you use your left arm?" Dean asked and Sam grunted questioningly, not bothering to even lift his head. "You're right handed. You opened the door with your left hand and carried your bag on that side." Sam didn't move or look do anything incriminating, but Dean was suspicious all the same. "Turn over, Sam."

Sam mumbled something into the pillow he had now pulled down and buried his face in that sounded a lot like "Come _on_."

"Sam, get up. If you're hurt, I need to know."

Once more, Sam groaned like a five-year-old. "I have a headache."

"Stop being a baby," Dean said, pulling at Sam's arm, making sure it was his left. His brother grudgingly obliged.

"It's not even that bad," Sam complained.

"Yeah, well, I'll determine that for myself," Dean said. "It's not like you were actually going to sleep more than an hour anyway."

"Good point," Sam said, and the dark bags under his eyes were more apparent than ever.

"Take your jacket off," Dean said. "Let me look at your arm."

Sam hesitated. "_Really_, it's not that bad," he tried. "Some glass just...I've had worse, trust me."

"Just do it."

Trying to hide a grimace, Sam unzipped his jacket and pulled it off. It was then that Dean noticed the tear in it near the outer bicep where a shard of glass must have been lodged when Sam had blown the window. Dean ignored the scar on Sam's left arm as usual, trying not to mention it.

"Ow," Dean said in sympathy when he saw the wound. A substantial chunk of glass was still stuck in the flesh of Sam's upper arm, and by the looks of it, it wasn't coming out easily. Luckily, the fact that it was wedged in there so tightly meant it wasn't bleeding profusely.

"This is going to need stitches," Dean observed. He stood up. "Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital. There won't even be a scar."

"No," Sam insisted, shaking his head. "We can't go to the hospital. We don't have that sort of time, and we can't afford to be out in the open right now. They'll get to us for sure."

"Well, then, what do you want me to do?" Dean asked exasperatedly, seating himself in the chair by Sam's bed. "It's not like you can expect to leave a huge freaking chunk of glass in your arm and expect it not to get infected."

"Look, you can take it out now," Sam proposed. "You have all the supplies, the needle, the thread; dad taught you how to do it when you were a kid. You can do it."

"Sam, do you_ remember_ how bad I was as a kid? I can't sew for shit."

"So what?" Sam asked.

"_So_, I'll probably end up killing you."

"Well, I'm going to die anyway--ow! What the hell?" Dean had smacked him as hard as he could in the back of the head.

"I'm not even going to warrant that an answer," he said simply as he walked to the bathroom. He returned with a full cup of tap water. "Drink it."

Sam shook his head. "Oh, no," he said, backing away instinctively. "I fell for that one once already. You're trying to drug me again, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," Dean replied. "_Duh_. But at least I'm up front about it this time. That counts for something, right?"

"Um...no," Sam responded.

"Look, these are your options here: One, you let me knock you out and I sew up your arm, I stay here, and you get a good night's sleep for once. Two, I take you to the hospital, we both get kidnapped by the demon, you turn into Darth Vader again, and I die, which I really don't like, by the way. Or three, I take that shard of glass out of your arm with you conscious, which, _trust me,_ is going to hurt so bad you're going to wish I would have knocked you out by hitting you over the head with a shovel instead of that." He raised an eyebrow. "What's it going to be, Sammy?" Sam still remained silent, indecisive. "I'll be here the whole time you're out. I will not even leave the room."

"No," Sam said.

"Well, for someone who wants to live and _not_ be in pain, you sure aren't acting like one."

"I don't want to go to sleep," Sam insisted.

"Last time I drugged you, you didn't have any nightmares."

"Last time you drugged me," Sam argued vehemently, "I woke up and made out with a demon, you almost got shot, I got kidnapped and injected with this fucking virus." Sam raised an eyebrow. "I'm not too keen on repeating _that _experience." He dramatically looked surprised, obviously not too happy. "Oh, _wait,_ I haven't finished _this_ one."

"This will actually help you get a better night's sleep," Dean said, pressing his point. "That's what you've been wanting for months."

"It'll leave me wide open for attack," Sam threw back stubbornly.

"I told you," Dean said, more than a little annoyed at this point. "I'll be here the whole time." Sam shook his head in the same fed up way he had been doing all evening. "Is there something I'm missing here?" Dean added on.

"I just..." Even the look on his face told Dean that Sam knew he was being a pain in the ass. "I just want to know I'll wake up," he finished.

"You really have that little time?" Dean asked incredulously. Sam hadn't given him a precise amount, but Dean at least expected four or five days. Sam paused for a second.

"To be truthful," he said, almost to himself, "I don't know exactly how long. Anywhere from twelve hours to two days."

Dean had to struggle to keep an indifferent look on his face while at the same time trying to keep his last meal from coming back up. He numbly held the cup out for Sam.

"Drink it," he said, his voice hoarse. Sam still shook his head, and Dean rolled his eyes again, more out of routine than genuine annoyance. He was doubting it, too. If they had that little time left, there wasn't much hope, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to throw that time away. "Remember the options," he continued, his voice monotone. "The hospital, this, or let me sew you up while you're awake, which is probably enough to make you pass out from pain alone."

Still looking suspicious, Sam held his hand out for the cup and downed it in one try.

"So how long until I'm out?" Sam asked awkwardly, only making Dean feel more guilty than he already was. He shrugged.

"About as long as last time. Pretty fast. I suggest you lie down before you fall and crack your head open; I could barely catch you last time and haul your ass into bed." Sam nodded and leaned back into the pillows. He sat there in silence for a few moments, waiting. Neither of them knew what to say.

"So..." Sam said after only about a minute. "Where's dad?"

"He's probably out looking for me right now," Dean answered while sifting through his bag for the proper medical items. "I'll call him in about twenty minutes, tell him I'm back here."

"Why?" Sam asked, his voice coming out sounding bored as he started to drift off.

"I'm going to let him worry a little, let him feel a little helpless. We'll see how he likes it."

"Don't..." Sam mumbled. His eyes were drooping, practically closed by then. "He was just doing...what I asked." His voice was silently asking Dean not to do what he knew was inevitable. He was asking Dean to forgive John for going behind his back, for betraying him. And Sam's pleading tone made Dean seriously consider it as he handled the needle with shaky fingers.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "But that doesn't make it right." The comment fell on deaf ears. Sam was already unconscious.

**A/N: So...I'm sick again. Yay!**

**Not!**

**Anyway, as you can tell I'm a little...well, cranky, and more than a little pissed off. You know, I just got better, and now I'm sick again. Plus, when I got sick at school the nurse had me lie down for five minutes, took my temperature, then sent me back to class. She said I couldn't go home because my fever wasn't high enough. I went home anyway, and my temperature was 101.3. I've barely been able to get out of bed since, and I'm super pissed because my birthday is Friday. Yay, me! I do not want to be sick on my birthday. But do you know how you can make me feel better? By reviewing! If there wasn't much in this chapter to comment on, then comment on the story in general, please. I need reviews. -puppy dog eyes-**

**So, in the upcoming chapters it's gonna speed up a little. It might not seem like it for the next two, but it will. Next chapter, Dean is going to confront John, and it's not gonna be pretty. And the chapter after that, I'm thinking of trying something different. I'm going to try to add a little bit of a songfic element to it, which I've never tried before. I just heard this song, and thought of the situation. I may be totally off, and it might suck, but I think I want to try it.**

**So review, please! As a birthday/get well present, pretty please!!!!! Tell me what you think is going to happen and what you think so far. Oh, and yes, I do know this is getting long, but it will end, and most likely on a cliffhanger, and then I'll break it into a sequel, which is yet to be named.**

**Yeah, and to answer a question about whether someone will die, like John or Sam or Dean, then I PMed you the answer. To the rest of you, I'll just say that I will not comment definitely, but yes, that is a possibility. If you aks me a question in a review, I will try to answer it, I promise.**

**Wow, this note is getting long. I start to ramble sometimes. Oh, and if anybody has a better idea for a chapter title of this chapter, I'm open to ideas.**

**Until next time...**


	53. Shut Up

**Chapter 53: Shut Up**

**A/N: There is a mention in this chapter of a book called Sophie's Choice. In the particular scene that is relevant, a woman in a concentration camp during the Holocaust is forced to choose which of her two children lives and which dies.**

**Also, the title is named after the song by Simple Plan of that name. It really does fit in. I had it on repeat the entire time I was writing this. I don't know why, I just love the song.**

Dean didn't exactly jump in surprise when he heard the knock on the door twenty minutes later.

"Dean?" the voice called. "Are you in there?"

Dean took a nice long pause before answering. He had just finished stitching Sam's arm up a few minutes before, being as careful with the task as he had ever been, and considering the circumstances he thought he had done a pretty good job. Sam had only stirred once, and that was when Dean had yanked the glas out; the anasthetic apparently hadn't taken full effect, and he made a mental note to apologize profusely if it ever came up at a later time. After that incident, though, Sam had barely moved except for breathing, and that didn't lead to much conversation. Even though that meant Dean could concentrate more on the work, it also let his mind wander.

It also had made him even more pissed at his father.

"Are you in there?" John repeated when Dean didn't respond.

"That depends," Dean called back, pushing himself up from his seat. "Just how much did you do to help Sam try to run off on me? Be careful, now, you will be graded on this answer." He stood about a foot away from the door, waiting expectantly. There was a long pause on the other side of the door.

"Listen," John said cautiously. "Just let me in and we'll talk about this."

"Oh, sorry, nice try," Dean said coldly from the other side of the door. "I don't think so, dad. That's not how things like this go. Try studying more for next time."

"Dean, _let me in_," John demanded, his voice officially stating he wasn't screwing around.

"No," Dean repeated, just as stubborn. "I like this arrangement as it is."

"Dean, _where's Sam_?" John asked, genuine concern in his voice that Dean ignored.

"Like you care," he threw back, venom in his voice.

John almost audibly clenched his teeth. "Where is he?" he forced out, an edge of panic creeping in. Dean rolled his eyes and yanked the door open, putting on his best stony face.

John strode past him in a heartbeat, his eyes scanning the room feverishly. He wasn't an idiot; he knew Dean wouldn't have come back to the hotel unless he had found Sam or was about to collapse and die. He swallowed loudly when he set eyes on his motionless youngest son, his face going white.

"Is he..." he asked.

"He's unconscious," Dean assured him, stating the obvious. "I drugged him, so he'll be out for a couple of hours. It's just you and me now." John didn't ask any further questions about Sam's state, not wanting to ruin already shaky footing.

John continued looking at Sam's face, and Dean suddenly recalled his vision or dream or whatever it was when Sam had died, and John's distraught expression as he looked at Sam's dead body. He had never thought he was going to see his son again. And as dismayed as he was that the plan hadn't worked, Dean could see the relief written on his father's features.

"Why'd you do it?" Dean asked. John didn't answer at first. He looked like he was seriously thinking about it, and his hesitation only made Dean angrier.

"I just...thought it was the right thing to do," John answered quietly.

"He's your _son_," Dean prodded uncomprehendingly, and John bit his lip, a sign of confusion, of weakness he had said, that John had barely ever used. Dean was almost hoping there was some way, some magic answer that John had, some reason he had for doing what he had that would suddenly make it alright. There had to be an excuse; there always was with John.

"Yes," John answered. "He is. But I have to respect his wishes. There was nothing I could have done anyway--"

"_Shut up_," Dean said. He felt something snap inside him, a switch being flipped. He guessed this must be what it felt like to realize your idol wasn't perfect, to realize that Superman still had Clark Kent inside him, the nervous little guy that couldn't even ask out the girl he liked. That was what it was like realizing his father was just a person, not a warrior. Not even a good father. And because of that, Dean was mad at John, truly furious. For the first time, he felt like he understood why Sam had hated him all those years. He saw John Winchester the person, the one Sam had been seeing, not John Winchester the hero, the one he had been blinded with.

John froze in shock. "What did you say?" he asked calmly, as if Dean had suddenly sprouted spider legs out of his back and started crawling around the room instead of simply having a serious intervention. John had barely recovered in time; Dean's comment had thrown him off guard.

"I said shut up," Dean replied. "What the hell were you _thinking_? You were just going to sit there and_ let_ him run off?"

John ran a hand through his hair nervously, looking like he had definitely exoected this sort of response from Dean. For a moment it looked like he had something, something that would make it all better, that would explain what he had done perfectly. Instead, in his own defense he offered lamely, "It was his decision."

_"Screw_ his decision!" Dean said loudly.

"I did what was best for _all _of us," John argued, and almost immediately looked like he knew he had phrased that statement the wrong way. He could tell he had only incenced Dean further.

"You were going to let him die," Dean hissed, wondering once more how he could have let someone like him be his role model. How could he have looked up to a man who was willing to let his youngest son die without even fighting for him? Without even saying a word? Without even showing regret?

"They weren't going to kill him," John said.

"They're just going to make his life a living hell," Dean added for good measure, and John ignored his comment like he always did. How could he not have noticed before how little John ever listened to him?

"There was still a chance we could snap him out of it. Dean, they practically had a knife to your throat." His tone was near pleading.

"I. Don't. Care," Dean said. "He's my baby brother. I've only ever had one real job my entire _life _and that was to protect him. If I can't even do that, what am I good for?" He shook his head. "If it comes down to who lives, me or him, it's going to be him. It's _always_ going to be him."

John blinked a few times. "I think the problem is," he said, his voice placating, "that you both think the same in that respect, and it's almost like you're in a competition with each other sometimes." Dean rolled his eyes. "He knew what he had to do; he's been willing to for awhile. He's not five years old anymore, like you want to believe. He's not going to hang on your every word like he used to." Dean raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of such an accusation. John sounded more like he was trying to convince a father to let go of his son rather than a brother to his sibling. "He can make his own decisions."

"Where was that supportive attitude when Sam wanted to go to Stanford?" Dean asked casually. "You _wanted_ him gone. You always have."

"That had nothing to do--"

"But it factored in a little bit, didn't it?" John responded with a simple 'shut up' glare, so Dean tried a different approach. "So hypothetically," he asked, "if he held a gun to his head and told you he wanted to kill himself, you'd just let him?"

John shook his head violently. "That's not what I--"

"He may not be five years old," Dean said angrily, "but he's still your son. You have a responsibility." He bit his lip, frustrated, "Not that you've ever taken--"

"What? John inquired.

"You've _never _been a father, to him or me. At least I _remember _when you were a little, but Sam never had a chance to know normal, to have a dad. You always thought he had to prove himself to earn your respect by being a hero, by being better than everyone else. And you were my hero, dad. I thought it made sense, because it seemed reasonable that you would know the right thing to do, but now I know it was all bullshit. Do you _know_ what kind of grades that kid got?" He could tell by John's wounded expression that he had hit a raw nerve. "Honor Roll, every year. Best kid in his class. You should have heard the way his teachers talked about him. But you didn't. It was me that was in there every time you weren't." He looked at the ground, remembering. "And yet still I wasn't doing enough," he muttered, almost to himself. It wasn't even meant to be out loud, it just slipped, and he had to scramble to recover from it. "But that's not the point," he said. "He never learned he didn't always _have_ to make his own decisions."

John took a deep breath. "I did the best I could," he said. "I knew what that demon could do to people. All that mattered to me was keeping you and Sammy safe. I couldn't let them get you, too. I did the best I could."

Dean considered taking John's side for about a split second before changing his mind. "I guess your best wasn't good enough, dad," he said, throwing the phrase John had used on Sam and him so often right back in his father's face. "God, why can't you just be a father for once instead of trying to be some badass warrior?"

"Sam doesn't need me anymore," John said, almost in denial. "He's made that perfectly clear." Dean saw him glance at Sam's unconscious form and followed his gaze. It was apparent even then that John was just making excuses, just like he usually did. That was all he ever did, come up with excuses. Excuses for why he treated his kids that way, excuses for why he left. Excuses for why he was such a fucking jackass. Dean marveled in how his point of view had changed in a few days.

"He does," Dean said. "Now more than ever. At least, he _did _need you." John looked up at Dean in surprise. "Dad, I need you gone by tomorrow morning." John smiled, as if it was all some sick joke.

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

"I want you to go, dad," Dean said. "Just for awhile, until I figure something out with Sam. I can't have him try to run off, and I don't need you--"

"You know I couldn't--" John started.

"But you _did_," Dean said, borrowing Sam's words from their earlier conversation. He glanced back at Sam's sleeping face, which looked peaceful for once; Sam very rarely looked at ease when he slept these days, but then again, he never had. He knew Sam wouldn't like how he was handling the situation, but then again, there were very few things Dean did that Sam _did_ approve of. Dean had grown used to the disappointment that was always thrown his way from every direction.

"You haven't been here," Dean continued, and as hard as he tried to stop it, as usual, his efforts to calm down had the opposite effect. "You have no idea what's going on here, do you?"

"Well--"

"That was a rhetorical question!" Dean responded loudly. "You think this is something that's just going to blow over? You think you can just skip in, knock on their door, ask 'May I pretty please have my son back, and without permanent mental issues he'll have to deal with the rest of his considerably shortened life?' and expect them to do it?"

"I didn't--"

"Yes," Dean growled furiously, "you did. That's what you thought you were doing!" His voice had raised to a yell, and he could see John silently asking for him to keep his voice down; there were very thin walls in the hotel.

Well, if John wanted him to lower his voice, fine. He adopted the tone that always seemed to have a nice effect on people. He had never used it on John; he had never dared. Then again, John had never done anything to shatter Dean's faith in him like this. The spell was broken. John could see that, and it had severely shaken him. In an icy hiss, Dean continued, "But do you know what you were really doing?" John swallowed audibly. He was looking even more uncomfortable. "You were sending him off to die. You knew that and you _still_ did it." He shook his head, filled with a disgust he rarely felt towards anyone.

"Do you have any idea," Dean said, forcing his voice to be a normal volume and not let his anger get the better of him, "what you've done to him over the years? On and on, all you do is fight. He's loves you, dad. He can't not, no matter what you do." Once more, he'd hit a nerve. John couldn't look at Dean or Sam. "Do you realize how many times you've said 'I hate you' to him?"

"And you've only said it once, right?" John retorted.

"He hated it," Dean continued, as if John had never said anything. "I was there every time you did. He would talk for hours, act like he hated you, everything you stood for. The truth was, he was just trying to give himelf an excuse not to admit it was killing him. He figured since you hated him, he should hate you, too. And I think he really did for awile there. But it was an excuse, and that was it." John took a deep breath, as if to steady himself so he could keep eye contact going.

"He always thought that you wished he'd never been born," Dean continued. "That you thought it was his fault mom died. And now that he found out it was all true, it's worse; he thinks he has to die for us to make it right." He shook his head. "I have spent_ two months _trying to fix that, and you just told him to go off and do it!" Now John had to drop his gaze. "Well? What does the amazing John Winchester have to say for himself this time?"

"I did what I had to--"

"Oh, not this--" Dean groaned.

"--under the circumstances--"

"Stop it!" Dean yelled. "_Shut up_! For once in your life, stop denying everything you do! Stop acting like you were right when you weren't! Stop blaming things _you've_ done on other people! _I hate it!"_

"Now you're just being--"

"You just loaded the gun and handed it to him!"

It was at that point John gave up trying to be unidue in his arguement and diverted to Sam's original tactic by quoting directly. "I had to choose whether to lose one of my sons or both of them!"

It didn't work.

"You son of a bitch," Dean muttered between his clenched teeth, seething. "You know what? No. That's an insult to son's of bitches everywhere and I liked grandma."

"Do you think I _wanted_ to do that to him?" John said loudly. "No! But I can't lose both of you." His voice was almost begging. "I can't. I had to do this to save what I have left. I did it to save you."

"This is not Sophie's Choice, for god's sakes!"

John froze, breathing heavily. He knew there was nothing he could try that would work. He looked way too vulnerable to be the legendary John Winchester that Dean had practically worshipped. Now he just didn't get it.

"All my life," Dean said quietly, almost as an afterthought, "it's been about Sam, to keep him safe. That's all you ever told me when he was first starting on hunts. 'Take care of Sammy. That's your job. Don't mess up. Don't let him down. Don't let anything bad happen to him.' And I knew you would never forgive me if I ever let him die, or if I ever let any of those things get to him. How can you just all of a sudden change your mind about that? All of a sudden. the only thing you told me that mattered in this world means _nothing_ to you."

"He _does_ mean something to me," John defended.

"Did he tell you," Dean asked, trying to keep John's attention, "that he's dying?"

John swallowed, his face white, but the fact that he didn't look totally apphauled gave Dean the answer to his question.

"I..." John started. "He told me when he was about to leave. I didn't know from the beginning."

Dean nodded his head, opening his mouth, but he couldn't get the question out. He found himself suddenly terrified of the answer if he asked about a cure for Sam. Very little options were left, but he couldn't just give up on Sam. He felt if he spoke the words, he would be giving away his last shred of hope, putting that in John's hands, a place where he defnitely didn't want it to be at that time. He finally decided not to ask, but John answered anyway.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Dean felt the breath get choked in his throat. "There's nobody I know. I checked right after you left."

"You what?" Dean asked incredulously. He didn't get it; why wasn't John out looking for Dean, trying to stop him, if he was helping Sam?

"I can't keep up with your pace when you're in panic mode," John answered. "There was a chance you would find him and bring him back, so I figured I'd call..." He smiled humorlessly. "Well, I figured I'd call basically everyone I knew."

"And...nothing?" Dean choked out. It took everything he had to keep from throwing up right there, all over John. But he was going to be strong. The number one rule John had taught him was to always seem stronger than you are in situations where you need the leverage. In short, suck it up.

"Nothing," John said simply. "And I know you don't like the idea of sending him back--"

"No," Dean said, as if that closed the matter.

"They have the cure," John said.

"They'll kill him," Dean retorted.

"We managed last time," John said. "We pulled him out of it. He'll be different, but he'll be _alive_."

"No, he won't be alive," Dean spat. "You call _that_ being alive? Spending your entire life trapped in your own body, watching yourself doing horrible things and knowing they're wrong but not being able to stop? Enjoying them, even? That's not being alive. That's being worse than dead to him."

"He can handle it. He's strong. He'll make it through. If he made it the first time---"

"He nearly died the first time! They almost killed him!"

"But he _lived_!"

"Get out," Dean said angrily. "Get the hell out of here!"

"What?" John asked, his mouth remaining slightly open in shock.

"What I told you earlier," Dean explained. "I want you out of here. I'll call you if anything happens, I promise, but you need to go."

"You can't keep me away from my son," John tried, frustrated already with his stubborn son.

"I thought you've made it clear enough you want him away from you many times in your life," Dean said, and John glared.

"You need--"

"No, I don't need you," Dean spat out. "I think I finally realize that for the first time in my life. You were my hero, dad. I don't know what happened, but I'm a big boy, and I've done a better job taking care of him than you have." He took anouther shaky breath. "I'm going to take care of him. I don't need your help. So, please, get the hell out." He met his father's furious gaze unhesitantly. "Get out!" he repeated.

"Fine," John said back in a forced calm tone, and yanked the door open, slamming it behind him.

It was then that Dean finally let out his breath. His legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed into the chair by the table. His head was spinning so much he felt like he had just ridden on the Teacup Ride at Disneyland three times.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, dropping his head into his hands. He felt sick, truly sick for the first time in awhile. His hands shook as he rubbed his temples, the blood pumping through his veins so fast it couldn't be good for his health. He took deep breaths, but they never seemed to process and get to his brain, panicking him and making him feel even more helpless than he already did.

He hated feeling this way: totally, completely helpless. He hated not knowing what to do about Sam. He couldn't let him die, no matter what it took, but what was there left to do? What if what it took was just too much for them to handle? The only options he had weren't good, and the most likely one seemed to be simply sitting there and watching Sam die.

Suddenly, and uncontrollable burst of rage came forth, and Dean stood, chucking the knife in his boot that he had been nervously handling across the room, where it shattered the glass in one of the small picture frames hanging on the wall. He had hit it dead center, and it wobbled up and down in the wood as it lodged itself solidly in there. He kicked the chair as hard as he could for good measure, sending it toppling backward.

Closing his eyes for about a minute to calm himself down, he went to check on Sam, his entire body shaking. His brother looked basically the same, but his breaths seemed to be coming more laborously, and he had a fever that he certainly hadn't had before.

_"Anywhere from twelve hours to two days," _he remembered Sam to have told him. Had he been wrong? Was it too late already? Had Sam already started the downward spiral?

"Come on, Sammy," Dean coaxed, now understanding Sam's hesitation to go to sleep, his fear that he wouldn't live to see the morning. Dean at least wanted to see him, talk to him one more time, if worst came to worst. "Just make it through the night."

**A/N: So today is my birthday! Yay! So I figured I'd update. Hope you enjoyed it, and please review!**

**Up Next: You will see, coming up, that I will be able to tell you less and less about the upcoming chapters. I will tell you this: Sam is going to get worse, much worse, there's going to be a big vision coming up soon that will reveal some of how this is going to end, and some normal sibling bickering, as usual. Plus, I finally get to have a fight scene where I can blow something up, which is something that I have been waiting for for like...ever:)**

**By the way, I've had a lot of people review and PM me asking if I'm going to kill Sam and asking for me not to. What makes you think I'm going to kill Sam? Just because he has the poison in him doesn't mean he's dead yet. _Everyone_ is in danger in this story, and _anyone _could die. Oh, and what's with all the people who are like "Kill John. No one cares about him anyway" in their reviews? That's a little harsh, even though, yeah, he kinda does deserve it sometimes. But...he's Denny...poor Denny. :'(**

**Review, please! For Sammy! It'll make him feel better!**


	54. Tell Me The Truth

**Chapter 54: Tell Me the Truth **

**Author's Note: Quick heads-up, I probably messed up on the medical terms and stuff, and my explanation of how exactly the characters know some of the stuff they say in this chapter kind of sucks, so I apologize for that. **

Sam_ did_ make it to the morning. He did wake up eventually, but he felt different when he did, and it definitely wasn't because his arm felt like it was on fire or he had just had the best sleep he'd had since Nora had, in most senses of the phrase, stabbed him in the back. This was different, and at that moment he couldn't quite place what.

The light seared into his eyes when he groggily opened them, feeling like someone had just plunged two knives into them. It felt even worse than any hangover he'd had, and that was saying something. He closed his eyes immediately, but it was too late. That pain was just bringing up all the other ones, and he suddenly found himself having trouble breathing, his head spinning even though he was lying down. He knew the symptoms; the demon had detailed them enough. It meant he didn't have much time left at all. Any minute, he supposed.

He was dying, could die at any moment, but all he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe that was what it felt like when you died, like going to sleep. If it was, then maybe dying wasn't as bad as it was cracked up to be. He could _use _some sleep. At least it wouldn't hurt, and at least there was no bright light. That was one cliché that he definitely didn't appreciate at that moment.

Burying his face in the pillow, he hoped he could suppress the few memories that hadn't come back up enough to keep most of them down for another hour or so, replacing them with the oblivion that sleep provided him. Or death, if that was what it was. One of the memories he tried the hardest to keep down was the fiasco the previous night. He didn't need to remember how he had let Dean talk him out of it, how he had thrown all of that psych bullshit at him, and how it had _worked_. It had even made complete sense to Sam.

His head throbbed through his temples at a steady rate, and he pressed his face even harder into the fabric, taking a deep breath and holding it, temporarily relieving the pressure on his head by moving the focus elsewhere in his body. He smelled cheap fabric softener. Somehow, that small detail helped not to ground him; the same fabric softener had been used in so many hotels they'd stayed it since he was a kid, it had become one of the most familiar smells to him, right up there with the smell of his dad's jacket from back when John had actually given Sam hugs. It must have been at least since he was eight years old; the one in Chicago didn't count.

Still, the smell of the fabric softener that could have been Snuggle, possibly Downy, had been used in so many hotels, he could almost take himself back to the beginning, before all of this had started. He could imagine nothing was wrong, that so many lives hadn't been ruined by him in one giant sweep.

"Sam? Are you awake?" It was Dean, that much was obvious, and for a second they were back again, before he even left for college. For a moment, Sam had trapped himself in another reality, and for a second he felt fine. He never would have though a memory from back in high school, when he had considered his life a living hell, would provide him any relief. He never would have thought his life could be _that_ bad. But for a moment, he felt good. He felt like he was safe, like he was home.

Dean was waking him up for school, having been up before him because of a late night hunt that went through to the morning that Sam had stayed at home, asleep, the entire duration. He was momentarily relieved Dean was even still alive to wake him up, but so many years had blocked him from the complete terror that had kept him up all night there at the beginning. Still, he groaned, rolling over to tell Dean to go away. There was no way he was going to school; he had just finished taking the SATs and they had used up most of his energy. All those nights of staying up, staying awake on coffee, had left him with a sort of hangover effect. He opened his eyes, squinting.

And reality was back, flooding in as he saw Dean's face, older, tired, hitting him in one giant wave like it did every single time. The brief, relaxing relief was gone in a flash, and he suddenly couldn't even remember what it felt like to feel safe, though he had only experienced it seconds ago. He wished for the thousandth time he could wipe the memories away, every single freaking one of them. Maybe if he couldn't remember he was dying, it wouldn't be so bad when he actually did. At least then he wouldn't have all of the memories eating away at his sanity every second of the day.

"I'm awake," was what he said simply in response, and it was fitting. He was awake again, in every sense of the world. Reality was back, and it was so not getting a Thank You card, not after all the shit it had pulled.

He attempted to move, to push himself up, but gave up after a few seconds. His limbs felt like lead. He still had a lot of sleep to catch up on, which he probably never would. He grumbled, his voice disgruntled and far from decipherable. He was too pre-occupied to notice how shaken Dean looked, even though it was ten times more apparent in the dim light how he hadn't even closed his eyes the entire night, or how his hands were still shaking after all that time. He attempted to smile, though, but he only had the energy to keep it up for a few seconds.

"I know you just woke up," Dean mumbled, his voice gruff and hurried, but hushed. Sam wondered for a split second if it was because he knew Sam's head hurt or because he was just paranoid before he got his answer. Since he opened his eyes the first time, it was darker. The curtains had been pulled closed and the lights had been turned off. Dean had seen the light hurt his eyes. Sam was a little freaked out and more than a little guilty that Dean had been watching him that closely for so long. But, then again, what more did he have to do? "But we have to go."

"We're running," Sam reiterated absentmindedly, knowing he should have expected the move. His voice was raspy; his throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. He coughed a little for a second, his throat suddenly closing. He felt like he was choking. His head spun, and the world turned on its side. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't tell if he could feel his heart stopping because that was how scared he was or because it actually was.

It passed. His breathing returned slowly, and he slumped back on his pillows. Dean had been just as scared as he had been. His eyes were wide, and he was thinking the same thing. He had thought that was it, too. For all they had known, it could have been, but Sam convinced himself that worrying was just going to kill him faster. Dean, apparently, hadn't given himself a reason not to worry. Sam saw something in his face. He wasn't acting like Dean Winchester anymore. He looked as scared as Sam felt, and for once he was showing it worse than his younger brother. And if anything in the world would have made Sam even more terrified, that was definitely it.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean agreed quietly. "We're running."

"Why?" Sam asked, regaining his breath, and Dean bit his lip, rolling his eyes though he looked more than annoyed. Anxious, maybe. "If you want us to stand our ground and fight, then let's do it." He was slowly coming into awareness, and very little in Dean's trail of logic made sense. "Why do we have to go?"

"Well," Dean explained, like he was talking to a five year old, "if I didn't know that the drugs in your system along with the fever of 101.2 degrees were muddling your common sense, I'd think you weren't my nerdy little brother." Sam reached up to feel his forehead, and, sure enough, it was hot to the touch. Meanwhile, he stared at Dean, making it perfectly clear he had a headache and didn't want to play this game.

"Sam," Dean reiterated, annoyed, but the emotion seemed forced, like he was trying too hard to act like himself when it should have come naturally, "a hotel room is not the best place for a fight, and you know that. We'd get our asses served to us on a plate. Plus, if they're coming after us, it's only a matter of time before they get here, and you're in no shape to defend yourself."

"I'm getting worse," Sam pointed out without emotion, "if you haven't already noticed. You know that." He didn't even know why he was opposing Dean on the matter. He wouldn't have thought he was up to another argument, and plus, he agreed with Dean on some level. Every ounce of him wanted to escape, to run as fast as he could as far as he could. Every bit of him told him to, but there was another tiny part winning out. He knew exactly what it was; it was the part that wanted to go back to them, to let out what he had suppressed for so long under Dean's careful watch.

"I don't know how it matters, either way," he finished while he was still winning out. Dean rolled his eyes for the thousandth time. He pulled the covers off of Sam, and then yanked the pillow out from under his head roughly, causing him to his the hard wood of the head board.

"Awake now?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked at Sam like he was teaching him a lesson. He didn't want to hear any more thoughts like that from Sam, and Sam understood. He nodded. "Good, because I am not going to let you lay in bed all day like a whiney little thirteen year old that doesn't want to get up and go to school. And if you had _any_ sense of self-preservation _whatsoever, _you'd listen to me and get the hell out of bed."

Now _this_ was the old Dean, the one Sam knew. He felt the relief flood through him. Dean had worried him there for a second. Something was still wrong, but his head was so cloudy he had to concentrate to realize what.

"Where's dad?" he asked tentatively. Dean didn't answer, and his back was to Sam as he double checked the room to make sure they hadn't left anything behind, but he stiffened, and when he spoke his tone was robotic, and Sam could tell he had rehearsed the lines before.

"Most of our bags are already in the car," Dean muttered, uncomfortable. "You're going to have to help me with a few, but not many."

"Dean," Sam said, more forcefully. "Where is he?"

Dean paused, blinking. His mouth was open slightly, and it moved a few times like he was going to say something, and his eyes stared at the floor like he could see the answer written there, like it was something really complicated. All he ended up saying, though, was, "He left." He didn't look up as he continued his work clumsily. He crouched down, pulling up the covers of the bed to check and see if they had left any stray shoes or socks under there. "Last night. I don't know where."

"You got mad at him, didn't you?" Sam asked, knowing it was true before he even opened his mouth, even though he could barely fathom how Dean could get _that _mad at his father in a million years. Yet when he thought about it, if anything could do that to Dean's unshakable faith in John, it was this. "You yelled at him."

"Of course I didn't," Dean said, but it was like a perfectly delivered line by a skilled actor.

"You _told_ him to leave," Sam continued, and he once more knew it was true. This was different than just knowing his brother well. He could _see _the truth; the waves of guilt and confusion were rolling off of him almost visibly, and all of a sudden those emotions transferred to anger.

_"God, I hate it when he does that,"_ Sam heard, though Dean's lips weren't moving.

"I know you do," Sam answered him, all the same. It only took Dean a few seconds of staring at him in confusion before he understood, and he blinked in surprise.

"How do you..." he said, out loud this time.

_"Can he read my mind?"_ Dean wondered, and once more it sounded so clear he could barely tell the voices apart. Sam pushed it away, not wanting to hear anymore. The headache he got from usually doing it was coming back, and it just brought up unpleasant memories.

"Yeah," Sam admitted.

"How long have you been doing that?" Dean asked, anger creeping into his tone, and Sam didn't blame him.

"Not that long," Sam assured him quickly. "I swear."

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing," Sam said defensively. "I didn't mean to," he continued, his tone apologizing. "I just...it's like my visions. I can't control it." Dean nodded, but his eyes were still wary. He didn't trust Sam, and that hurt more than a lot of things Dean could have said at that point.

Dean nodded, then shrugged in a trying-too-hard-to-be-casual way.

_"At least he dropped the topic of dad." _And suddenly, Sam could feel Dean's relief as his own. _"Thank god. He doesn't need to--"_

"You're still going to have to tell me what happened between you and dad," Sam said, careful not to mention how he had gotten the hint from reading Dean's mind. Luckily, Dean was too irritated he had asked the question at all to care.

"I told you, _nothing,_" he said. "Now get the hell off your lazy ass. We're going."

"Not until you tell me the truth," Sam said stubbornly.

_"I hate you, Sam,"_ Dean thought, but he didn't truly mean it, not that time. He was thinking it out of pure agitation and nervous energy. _"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."_

Still, he forced out a semi-diplomatic, "I'm not lying, Sammy."

"Yes, you are," Sam insisted, and Sam could vaguely hear Dean's thoughts, though they were fading away, becoming fuzzy. Dean was wondering whether or not to just outright tell him.

_"I don't have...tell...truth...completely."_

"Dean, tell me," Sam said. "I won't get mad." It was too late. Dean had decided not to say anything more on the matter. His thoughts were too far away to get the truth that way, and the only other option was forcing him, and he could only do that if he wanted to lose Dean's trust completely. It would only take three simple words used with the right inflection, and he could get inside Dean's head. He could make Dean tell him anything he wanted if he just asked. Dean would tell him everything without taking a breath, without hesitation. He used that as an emergency precaution only. Still, Sam thought he deserved to know.

Dean didn't think that way, apparently. He had already moved on, and it was pissing Sam off how he could look so indifferent about the things he had most likely said. Maybe this was what he had acted like after he had sent Sam off for good. Normal, like he hadn't done anything wrong. Like he didn't even notice anything gone.

"Come on," Dean said, looking fazed for a second before returning to a calm exterior. There was a trace of a whine in his tone, one that Sam recognized but hadn't heard since they had once had to go on a plane to exorcise a demon. "Let's go, okay? Just trust--" He reached out to grab Sam's upper arm and pull him out of the room, but the second Dean's fingertips brushed his skin he jerked away, getting to his feet. Dean tried to open his mouth to say something, moving forward.

"Don't touch me," Sam said. It wasn't just because he was angry at Dean, either. The second he had made contact, he had seen something, though it was in high fast-forward. He couldn't tell what any of the separate images were, but he didn't like the way they looked in general.

"You not telling me the truth," Sam said angrily, using anger as an excuse for why he had pulled away so fast, but his voice sounded too absent. Dean was looking suspicious, but fell for it. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, this coming from the Master of Truth himself?" Dean threw back sarcastically, with a little more venom than necessary. Sam knew he didn't _mean_ it as an insult, but he got upset all the same.

"Fuck you," he spat out, pulling his shirt on and grabbing his bag, unconsciously reaching for his bottle of pills. He needed to do something about his headache; it felt like his head was going to explode. Dean grabbed it from his hand immediately,

"What are these?" he asked with his typical big-brother commanding voice.

"Don't change the subject," Sam said, irritated to the core. For once, he wanted to get a straight answer out of Dean. His brother just never wanted to do anything Sam said.

"Where did you get these?" Dean asked, looking at the label and having to squint at the small print.

"Prescription," Sam answered simply. "Now give them back."

"Where'd you get a prescription?" Dean asked, much better at being persistent and getting answers than Sam was, even though his technique was much simpler; he'd just ignore everything you said until you told him what he wanted.

"The hospital," Sam said, clenching his teeth.

'"These are for stress headaches," Dean said. "When did you get that? You were only awake in the hospital for one day, and that's not your doctor's name."

Sam swallowed uncomfortably. "I'll tell you the truth if you do the same," he said.

"So now we're getting into this whole 'You bleed for me, I'll bleed for you' shit?" Dean asked smugly. "No, not going to work on me."

"Fine," Sam threw back. "Then give me my medicine and shut up about it." Dean was already moving faster than him, though. He had already spotted the other two small bottles in Sam's bag.

"So this one is for night terrors," Dean observed, ignoring Sam's attempts to get it back. Sam paused for a second, raising an eyebrow when Dean made that comment, though. "I do my homework, Sammy. I'm not stupid." He grabbed the next, which had had noticed Sam trying to slip into his jacket pocket, away from Dean's eyes, just in time. "And these..." Sam made an attempt to snatch it unsuccessfully.

"Dean, no."

"...are anti-depressants," Dean finished, blinking a few times in quiet shock.

"_Mild_ anti-depressants," Sam assured him quickly, officially on damage control. "Nothing major. I don't even take them that often. Just sometimes I go through pretty bad phases, and when I stop taking them I just get worse."

Dean finally looked up at him, his brow furrowed.

"Don't look at me like that," Sam said quietly.

"Look at you like what?" Dean asked.

"Like I'm some suicidal whack-job that needs meds to keep sane," Sam said, and Dean flinched. "It's not like that, I swear. I don't have schizophrenia, I don't have Multiple Personality Disorder, and I don't have OCD." Dean still looked away. "They just say I have recurrent Clinical Depression that can be taken care of. I just have to be careful, and tell them if I start to get worse."

"So you've been what? Seeing a shrink behind my back?" Dean asked incredulously. Sam grudgingly nodded. "How did you manage to do that?"

"Before we met up with Nora, we were in Atlanta for over two weeks working on a case, and then back when Nora was with us for another four days. I had checked a few places in the area, and I found one. That night I came to you and told you all that stuff, they say that was my breakthrough." Sam took a deep breath. If he had hoped Dean would be happy he had gotten help, he was wrong. He was probably angrier just because he hated therapists, thought they would treat Sam like a freak when they actually helped. Well, except for Ellicott, but that was different. "I guess after Nora left it just got worse, and I didn't have anyone to go to."

"That's not what I meant." Dean shook his head. "I mean, you couldn't have had any sessions in the middle of the night. How'd you get away?"

"Now _that_," Sam replied quickly, "is none of your business. And before you ask, neither is what I discussed there."

Dean gritted his teeth, obviously more than a little upset and hurt. "I would have gone with you," he said, much to Sam's surprise. He looked up, and Dean seemed uncomfortable. "I would have driven you; I would have sat in the waiting room reading People magazine. All you had to do was _ask_."

"I thought you hated shrinks," Sam said.

"I do," Dean admitted. "But if that's what you needed, I'd do it. You know that. I wouldn't like it, I wouldn't approve, but I'd give in eventually. I just don't get why you didn't tell me."

"There are some things I have to deal with on my own."

"You mean like everything you do?" Dean said, the irritation bubbling up to the anger point.

"This is none of your business."

"You've been on anti-depressants for over four weeks and they're not working at all right now, Sam!" Dean said incredulously. He was close to yelling. "God, what are you like when you're _not_ taking them?"

"I don't take them that often," Sam threw back. "Only when it gets really, really bad. Dangerously bad."

"You didn't tell me you were going to a therapist regularly. Why?" Dean bit his lip in a futile attempt to keep his anger back. "Why, Sammy?"

"Because I couldn't take it anymore," Sam hissed. "We went over this last night, and I really don't want to recite that little speech again, and I'm sure you don't either. You were always around, waiting for me to crack. Do you know how that feels? I felt like I was being suffocated, and I needed to talk to someone who wasn't going to immediately going too judge me."

Dean actually seemed to take that comment in for once. "Damn it," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I promised myself, no more fighting with family members." He snorted. "Yet, here we are. I just don't want to fight. Not now."

"You don't want to fight with the dying guy," Sam clarified sourly.

"I don't want to fight with my baby brother," Dean corrected, sitting down on the second bed, opposite Sam, his hands resting on his knees. "So..." he said. He took a deep breath. "Is it_ that_ bad?"

"I'm really that fucked up," Sam said.

"Dangerously bad?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, I knew it was bad, just not _that_ bad."

"Not, like, suicidal bad, but bad."

"How bad?"

Sam smiled wryly, and so did Dean. "Okay, now you're just _trying_ to make this awkward."

"Maybe a little," Dean admitted, and Sam laughed once. He was still thinking, though.

"Yeah," Sam said. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I realized it either. I don't think I realized where I was heading until I got there, when I hit rock bottom. Everything just keeps getting more and more out of hand, you know?" He didn't break down or start hyperventilating like he had the night before. Now he spoke all of his thoughts as simple facts.

"And when was rock bottom?" Dean asked, his voice a similar tone. Sam smiled once more, without any humor tracing his face.

"That's the thing," he said. "I don't really know. Every time I thought I'd hit it, I just kept sinking lower, until I think I almost reached China." Dean grinned. "Although I have to say when it's a tie between the whole bar fight incident and last night." He blew a strand of his hair out of his face. It really did seem to get darker every day, and because his hair was jet black when he was all dark side, that couldn't be a good sign. "I have to give the trophy to last night, though. I'm embarrassed just looking back on it. Talk about rock bottom." Dean nodded as he took a second look at the prescription bottle.

"You're taking Moclobemide," Dean said, and Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised that Dean even knew how to pronounce the word, much less knew the meaning. "Isn't that an MAOI?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "Wikipedia. Try it out."

"What the hell were you searching Moclobemide for?"

"I wasn't searching Moclobemide. It's a long story, which involves me being really bored one night and pressing the Random Article button on Wikipedia. I may not have gone to college, but I know stuff. But if it's an MAOI, that usually means you've been prescribed others, but they haven't worked. At all. In fact, they usually make it worse because you hate admitting you need them."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it already; the first step is admitting you have a problem. So?" He didn't get the point.

"Why weren't they working, Sam?" Now Sam got it. And this was just wonderful. The one time Dean wanted to have a sharing time had to be then. This was the one thing he couldn't talk to Dean about. That was the entire reason he had gone to a therapist in the first place, and the reason he had never told Dean about it. He didn't need it to be turned into some freaking couples counseling shit. But Dean was honestly concerned, and it wasn't like Sam had tried to kill himself or anything.

"Well," he said carefully, "if you had been there, you'd have heard the entire explanation that usually the reason they don't work is because you don't think they will. That subconsciously, you don't think anything is going to work, because it's so bad. You have to believe it can work. You have to have hope."

"And…you don't?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam said quickly.

"Then what?" Sam threw a glance at Dean as he pulled his shoes on, and then silently went back to tying his shoelaces. He swallowed, thinking about his answer. He didn't want to tell Dean exactly what the doctor had said on the matter, because it didn't make sense, even to him. So he answered truthfully.

"I don't know."

Dean surveyed him for a moment. He sat on the edge of his bed, and Sam wondered just what he was waiting for. Was he watching to see if Sam was going to have another breakdown? If so, it wasn't going to happen. And if he was watching to decide what question to ask next, Sam wasn't going to answer it.

"Come on," Dean said instead. "Let's head out."

Sam took one last glimpse of the hotel room before he left. He would never know why it was so hard to leave; it wasn't exactly his home. Then again, he had never really had a permanent home. That room was as good as any place. And he had a bad feeling about leavng, like he knew what was going to happen.

"You ready?" Dean asked from behind him.

"Yeah," he responded simply, and turned around, closing the door behind him without a word. "I'm ready."

He had a bad feeling that everything was going to go to hell.

**A/n: OK, guys, please don't be too harsh on me in your reviews about my explanation of why Dean would know that terminology. It just needed to be that way for the chapter, and I couldn't think of a decent excuse for why Dean would know it. It was either a lame excuse or cut the entire thing, and maybe it would be better if I had cut it, but I always hate cutting stuff out. That's probably why this story is so long. **

**Speaking of which, this story WILL end eventually, I promise. In about two chapters things are going to start spinning out of control. There's one more chapter of calm before things blow up, and then I'm going to be kicking off my 'Virtual Season Finale,' because as I told you before, I did start this off as a virtual season 2. **

**Oh, and earlier in the chapter, Sam was reading Dean's mind, and when he was talking about how he could make Dean give him the truth, I was just showing exactly what he can do with his powers. For those o you who have seen Season 2, it's the power displayed by Andy in Simon Said, and Sam can do it. Not as well as Andy, but if he tried hard enough, he can do it to some degree, and I'm playing around with that idea in the chapters coming up. **

**Up Next: The vision is coming up in two chapters, and it's going to show a lot of what is going to happen, and almost all of it isn't good. It's a bit cryptic, but you can figure it out. It's also not just showing one scene, Sam's seriously glancing into the future and seeing a lot of what is to come, though there's so much he can only understand parts of it, and those parts aren't good. Be prepared for one really sad scene and one kind of shocking one (ok, maybe not that shocking). Also, next chapter I'm going to try out that songfic idea, which could be totally crap, so please don't trash it when it comes out. **

**Until next time...**


	55. Time Bomb

**Chapter 55: Time Bomb **

**A/N: A few notes. One, this was originally supposed to be my attempt at a songfic chapter, but it just didn't work out. Two, this beginning dream is NOT vision. It is a dream that might be having some input from Sam's psychic side. It was supposed to have more, but I'm thinking of separating that and making it into a totally different oneshot. I think that's it. **

The car ride was awkward from the first moment they climbed into the rusty old car. Sam missed the Impala now more than ever. He knew that if anything could make him feel better right then, that was it.

He found himself drifting off to sleep involuntarily, and no matter how hard he tried to stop it, he was soon out of it completely. He was greeted with a strange darkness that filled the void where his usual nightmares would be. He could no longer feel the pounding in his head or the pains in his chest when he drew a breath, and for the fiftieth time that day he wondered if he was dying. If he was, there was no time to be scared about it. He merely felt exhausted, and his mind drifted.

But not for long. He woke up soon, very soon, and so abruptly it felt like he had been physically jerked into another existence. He was somewhere he didn't recognize at all, and he was in a bed. He supposed it was mildly comfortable, but something smelled dank and musty, but familiar and comforting in an odd way. It felt distant, and he couldn't quite place why he felt so attached to the feel of this room, and why it made him feel like a different person. Maybe he had just become used to all of those seedy hotels.

Though all he wanted to do was return to sleep, something in the back of his head kept whispering, "_Get up" _insistently. He obeyed without thought. His feet hit the ground with almost no sound and he looked around. There were no windows, but somehow that didn't occur to him as strange. He welcomed the change. There was a door on the other side of the room, and he could hear whispers from the other side of it. They were saying his name, calling to him. He recognized them: Jess, his mother, his father. He reached for the door handle.

"Don't do it, Sam," an echoing voice from behind him said, and he turned, surprised. There was Dean, staring at him from the other side of the room. He had a warning look on his face, but he was also scared. Not for himself, for Sam. "Don't go." He shot a glance at the door, and Sam realized the voices had stopped.

He walked forward, though he didn't really think about it. It was almost like a reflex. Sam took a single step toward his brother, and Dean smiled encouragingly.

_"You don't want to do that," _another voice said, more commanding than Dean's. His head turned automatically, searching around the room for a second, only to see nothing. It was then that he realized the voice was inside his own head.

He turned back to Dean, but now there was something else on Dean's face: fear. He was darting anxious glances around the room, as if he had also heard the voice himself. Then his eyes rested on Sam's face, and he shook his head, taking a step back as Sam advanced, and he no longer had control over his body.

"How could you?" Dean breathed. The words came to him as a whisper that Sam was surprised carried across the room. He could barely even hear it and had to lip-read most of it.

"I don't understand," he tried to say, but the words wouldn't form on his lips. He tried to convey the words through his eyes, but that only seemed to make it worse. Dean shook his head once more, disappointment now shining in his eyes.

_"This is your destiny, Sam," _the voice in his head whispered to him. _"Don't bother to fight it. This is who you were meant to be."_

_"What am I?" _Sam thought, and his own body gave him the answer. It moved against his will, the eyes going to the mirror behind his brother. There he saw himself, exactly as he was when he had first joined the demon, pitch-black, merciless eyes and all. His reflection smiled, and it was only then that he noticed the smug smiled creeping on his lips.

_"Let me help you," _the voice said, only now it was coming from his own mouth.

* * *

Sam jerked up out of his seat in shock, his breathing heavy, his heart beating wildly. He should have known better than to think he could go another night without a nightmare. At least this one wasn't as bad as the others had been. Those had been so bad they had been classified as night-terrors. 

"Are you alright?" Dean asked, keeping his eyes on the road. Though he hadn't been awake for most of them, he was familiar with Sam's sleeping problem. Sam nodded his head, and Dean mirrored the gesture.

The entire next half hour, Dean seemed to have made a personal vow to himself not to say anything. He kept his eyes focused on the road intently, like he was watching for any sign of movement on the road, even though they hadn't seen a single car the entire trip, nor had the road changed from the precise straight line that was annoying the hell out of Sam. The fact that neither of them had to concentrate on the road, yet they weren't talking, made it even more uncomfortable.

"Is it cold in here?" Sam asked after forty-five minutes had passed, and the Metallica on the classic rock station Dean was listening to had faded out and the DJs had started talking about some upcoming movie that they apparently hated. He was shivering, though sweating at the same time. Dean didn't even look over for more than a second.

"Um..." he started, clearing his throat as he prepared to use his voice again. He furrowed his brow. "Yeah, it is."

It wasn't the truth. Though it was winter and most likely freezing outside, the heat was on high. Dean just preferred to lie to him, and Sam couldn't blame the guy. He'd just be admitting another symptom of the poison was creeping up even faster on his dying brother, and he didn't want to worry him.

Sam nodded, pretending he had believed Dean. As if to prove the lie, Dean turned up the heat even more, though he was bound to be already really warm in the cramped vehicle.

"There's, um..." Dean started. "There's an extra blanket in the back. I bought it awhile ago, and I never use it, but I keep it just in case." He jerked his head in the direction.

Knowing it wouldn't do any good and would only make him look stupider and more pathetic than he already did, he still reached back to placate Dean, knowing he would just get worried if he didn't. The blanket was small and scratchy, but it did help a little, he guessed.

"Here," Dean said, turning a little and holding a hand out. He was reaching over to Sam's forehead. "Let me see how your temperature is doing."

Sam already knew how it was doing: shitty. Dean knew it, too. A second before his hand touched Sam's forehead, he paused. He could feel the heat radiating off of it from there. He tried to swallow inconspicuously, though he had known the answer before even checking. He was just trying to make busy work.

Dean brushed the bangs off of Sam's forehead, where they were wet and sticking there from the sweat. His hand felt abnormally cold there, like he had stuck it out in an ice-drift, though Sam had heard once that you would feel that in comparison to the temperature of your body. Dean's hands were probably normal.

"You feel fine," Dean said with a fake smile, and it was then that Sam realized why he had done it. He had wanted to give Sam the impression it wasn't as bad as it was. He had wanted to give him some bit of hope for his survival.

"Really?" Sam said, playing along. If Dean wanted to think it would work, he wasn't going to burst his bubble.

"Yeah," Dean said. "You've got awhile left. Plenty of time." He turned back to the road, smiling one more time to reassure Sam, but his hands were gripping the wheel tightly, as if to steady them. "God, I hate this station," he muttered. "All the DJs do is talk, talk, talk all day long. The other day they were discussing whether or not 'spaz' should be counted as a curse word." Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam nodded his head absently. Dean could tell his attempt at a distraction wasn't working, but he looked on curiously as Sam reached back for his bag.

"I'd give you all of them, but I stored most of them in the car, and since Nora stole it I didn't have many left, but..." Sam murmured as he rifled through all of the junk until he got to the very bottom of his bag. There, he unzipped a small pouch on the side and pulled something out. Four small, rectangular objects. "I still kept a few with me, just in case." He smirked slightly before handing them to Dean, who took one last glance at the road before diverting his attention to the print. A grin spread across his face when he did.

"Metallica," he listed for the first one, and then sorted through the stack, "AC/DC, Blue Oyster Cult, and Foreigner." He glanced up at Sam, smirking. "I thought you were never going to give these back to me."

"Well, yeah, I wasn't," Sam said, and chuckled, but that led into a fit of coughs which he immediately brushed off. "I figured now was as good a time as ever. I just can't believe you didn't find them before."

"You know, Fergie really started to grow on me after awhile," Dean joked. "But seriously, why now?"

"Is it really that criminal of me to want to give you reason not to bitch about the stupid DJs for the next few hours? Please, I'd do anything to make this less awkward for us."

"Is it really that awkward?" Sam snorted, and then put a hand over his face, shaking his head, trying to hold back the nervous chuckles. "Come on, man."

"Dude, you haven't said anything for the entire time. You just sit there like a robot, and then, all of a sudden you're all 'Let me take your temperature. Let me see just how close to dying you are, how much longer you'll last before you drop dead.'"

"Nobody said anything about you dropping dead," Dean threw back.

"It's still pretty awkward." Dean paused for a moment before answering.

"Yeah, that's pretty bad," Dean agreed. "But not as bad as you suddenly trying to make everything right between us."

"What makes you think that's what this is?" Sam asked defensively. He crossed his arms in front of him, which only succeeded in making him look like a stubborn toddler.

"I know," Dean responded simply.

"Well, don't act like you don't understand_ why _I'm doing it."

"No, I don't," Dean said, attempting to sound oblivious, which, of course, was bullshit. "I don't get why you feel this need to make everything up to me all of a sudden, like you couldn't do it before."

"Whoa, what's with the hostility all of a sudden?" Sam said. "What's wrong with wanting to make everything right?"

"Because it isn't how you do it. You don't just decide all of a sudden that everything's going to be fixed."

* * *

**Five Years Ago**

_You can do this, _Dean told himself for the hundredth time that day. He had been saying that for over an hour, sitting in front of the phone, but he hadn't worked up the courage yet. He kept telling himself he didn't have anything to worry about, that he was being the good guy in this situation. Sam wanted him to call, and that was exactly what he was doing. He still hadn't convinced himself, though, that he needed to call. As far as his logic went, he had nothing to apologize for.

No, that wasn't fair to think. That wasn't right. What he had said was wrong, the worst thing he could have said._ He_ was the reason Sam had left. Sam had offered to _stay_, and he had told him to go. Why had he done that? Wasn't that what he had been waiting the entire argument to hear? He had finally worn down Sam, gotten him to give up his dream for his family, and he couldn't stop himself. It had been too late.

Dean nearly cringed at the memory, but stopped it, trying to force it down like he had every other time it came up that week. But for some reason, right then it wouldn't cooperate.

John had been strangely calm about the matter, aside from asking Dean what had happened every five seconds. John had his suspicions, had known what had happened was Dean's fault, but hadn't voiced those concerns, and for that Dean was grateful. Even then, Dean knew he wouldn't have listened if he had.

Dean didn't care anymore. About what Sam thought of him, what his dad thought of him, anybody. He didn't know why he should bother anymore. The harder he tried, the worse he fucked things up. What he had said to Sam just proved that.

He had to fix something, and fast, because Sam was so stubborn he would never even try. Dean picked up the phone and dialed.

He guessed he was in a state of disbelief or something. The house still felt strangely empty without his younger brother, and he didn't know he would miss him this much. Sam had been a pain in the ass since they were kids, but it had never mattered before until then. Until he had told Sam he didn't care anymore.

When Sam had told him to say it, his first instinct was to say "Of course I want you around," but that wasn't what came out. His mind was telling him to say it, but his mouth was moving on its own, like it thought it knew the truth better than Dean did.

Maybe that was why it had come out. Maybe it was the truth and he just hadn't known it. Maybe he didn't care about Sam as much as he wanted to believe.

No, that wasn't it, and Dean knew it. He would have loved to hate Sam, to have not missed him, to have really meant what he had said. He wished he could be like his father; then he wouldn't care what Sam's face looked like, how hurt he had looked. Sam hadn't even been mad like Dean would have expected.

Sam surprised him that night. Even after saying it, Dean hadn't seen what he had done. He would have thought Sam would call his bluff and argue some more, but he had accepted it. He thought Dean had meant it. His face had transformed after Dean had uttered the words; Dean could see that when he had finally turned around. He only saw his brother for a moment, a split second, barely an image. His last of Sam. But his brother had changed towards him.

_"Hello," _a voice said on the other end of the phone, and Dean felt his throat contract, struggling to find the right words in the situation. He couldn't outright say he was sorry; he would sound weird and desperate.

"Hey, it's Dean--" he started, but was cut off.

_"This is Sam Winchester," _the voice continued without interruption, and it was then that Dean felt his heart begin to sink, though he stopped it immediately. He had to stop that. No more hurting over this. He was a new person from now on. He would leave the message, and then it was a new Dean. He wasn't going to let this happen again, ever. He would put up a barrier; nobody was getting through again if he could help it. _"Please leave a message after the beep and I'll call you back when I get this."_

_

* * *

_

That little sentiment turned out to be total and complete bullshit. The call had never been answered, and when he had called back, the same message had played.

It was like a promise from Sam, and unspoken statement.

_Things are never going to be the same, _he seemed to be silently implying. And they never were.

The next day, when he had called, the number had been disconnected. Dean hadn't been able to get a number after that. John would go and check on his youngest son routinely almost every month to make sure he was alright, and that was the only time he ever mentioned Sam in front of Dean. Once he had asked if Dean wanted to come along, and Dean had said no. Sam didn't want to see him, and though John assured he didn't have to talk to him, Dean still declined, even though he had wanted to. He didn't think he could handle another argument like that, not for awhile.

He never saw Sam for four more years.

* * *

**Now**

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly, already regretting opening his mouth in the first place. Dean took one look at his sulky expression and sucked a breath in. "I just don't get this sudden..."

"Hostility? Yeah, you said that." Sam bit his lip, and Dean immediately felt guilty.

"It's not your fault," he said, shaking his head. "I just...Sorry about that." He popped the Metallica tape out of its case and into the player. "Thanks for giving them back." Sam didn't answer. Dean dropped his head down, a hand going up in defeat. "Look, really, I'm fine. I'm just getting a little... we should have tried to fix this a long time ago."

"Fix what?" Sam asked without any real feeling.

"Everything." Sam kept his gaze firmly planted on his shoes. Not only did it help him feel less uncomfortable, but it stopped the spinning in his head. "We never really tried to do anything about it, and I guess now it just feels like there's pressure or something to suddenly be a happy family, because we're just not sure how much longer we're going to stay that way."

"We're never going to be a happy family," Sam said under his breath.

"We never really tried," Dean said for the second time, and Sam dropped his head a little more. "We just didn't talk about it. And I know that was my fault, but it wasn't_ just_ my fault."

"I know," Sam replied, taking deep breaths, his face getting a little whiter. It had been doing that all morning, getting steadily worse. Sam had learned to just ride out the waves of pain, dizziness, and nausea it brought him, and now he wasn't going to bring it up. He wanted to finish his freaking conversation without collapsing. Only his body didn't seem to think that way. It was telling him to just go to sleep, and then everything would be fine. Only it wouldn't. If he so much as closed his eyes, it was over for him. He was done, and he knew it. His body and mind was still reeling from the last time, and he had a feeling that one had been a close call, too. In fact, the nightmare might have saved his life. It could have been the thing to keep him from slipping away.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, but Sam ignored him.

"I'm sorry I acted like an asshole that night to you, to dad. I didn't mean to do that. I wanted you to be happy for me." This time it was Dean's turn to be silent for awhile.

"You didn't even talk to me for four years," he said. "I had nothing. You just walked out and then it was like you never existed. Dad even stopped talking about you to me after awhile, because he knew how much I hated it."

"You hated me."

"I didn't_ hate_ you," Dean said, but the way he emphasized 'hate' was suspicious. "I was just really frustrated at you. Your number was disconnected, Sam, and I know it wasn't a coincidence. I tried to hunt your number down to wish you a happy birthday and I couldn't find it. Your roomate told me you didn't want to talk to me." Sam's eyebrows met in the center. "I'm guessing he never told you about that?" Dean asked sarcastically. Even Sam could tell how angry he was. He even had lied to his father about it. "You wanted so hard to believe I really didn't care. You wanted an excuse to leave, and I was that. So you pretended like I never tried to apologize. You outright lied to me, telling me you never got those calls. You didn't want to come back." Sam bit his lip so hard he was sure he was going to draw blood. "I wasn't going to beg you to come back, Sam. I just wanted to know my little brother didn't hate me. I just wanted to talk to you. A fucking phone call once a _month_ would have been nice." He shook his head.

_**"**_And when you came back, I tried to make it right. I tried for an entire year, but what did I get? I got shot with rock salt, another lecture, and my own brother trying to shoot me between the eyes. I tried for a year, and you never listened. And I really did hate you for awhile, but at least I tried. What can you say you did, other than treat me like I didn't even deserve to look you in the eye? And now, here you are, suddenly all saintly and all 'I want to make things right.' What am I supposed to say, Sammy?"

"I was keeping my promise to you," Sam replied. "I told you that if you wanted me to go, I would go. You wanted--"

"I didn't want you to go," Dean said, and he finally looked at Sam, willing his brother to return the glance. Sam snorted.

"You said outright that you didn't give a shit about me, what I did, or what happened to me," he said.

"Of course I_ care, _Sam!" Dean said loudly. "I can't help it. I'm your brother, and I'm _always _going to have you around, whether I like it or not. And sometimes you're a royal pain in the ass, but mostly..." Sam sat in shock. This was a rare moment for Dean, and Sam tried as best he could to commit it to memory before Dean realized what he was doing and got pissed at him. So he changed the subject.

"Then why'd you say it?"

Dean looked lost. He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders, a desperate look on his face. "I don't know," he finally answered, and Sam could see that he meant it.

"I'm not saying what you said wasn't true, about me and stuff, but you told me to go. You told me you didn't care, and you told me to go. I went."

"You listened," Dean said quietly. Sam didn't understand. "You listened to me, even though you knew it wasn't true. You still left."

"You meant it."

"No, I didn't," Dean said, and he met Sam's eyes. "I don't hate you, Sam," he continued. He didn't break the gaze except for an occasional glance at the road. "And I know I said those things, and I will regret them for the rest of my life. They took four years with you away from me. And I may hate a lot about you. Hell, I probably hate _everything _about you right down to your nerdy little haircut, but I'm going to be here. And I want you to know that I'm not here just because I feel like I owe you something, or because I feel like I have to. I'm here with you because I want to be. I'm here because you're my baby brother and I promised mom and dad that I would love you no matter what. And I'm going to keep my freaking promise." Sam smiled slightly, and though Dean looked more than embarrassed, he seemed to be getting over it.

"So," Dean said, "that was my chick-flick moment of the decade. You are not going to see that performance again for awhile So count that as my attempt at making things right."

For once, one of Dean's smartass comments actually made him laugh. That seemed to make Dean happy for the moment.

"So..." Sam said. "Do you want to never mention that again...ever?"

Dean smiled in relief, nodding vigorously. "I really, _really_ do."

"What happened?" Sam asked, all of a sudden. Dean raised an eyebrow. "What happened to us? How is this all so different all of a sudden? It's like we're not the same people anymore. The Dean I know would never have given that little speech just then."

"And the Sam I know wouldn't start kicking people's asses in bars or cry, but there you go."

"I wasn't crying," Sam said, his voice warning. Dean raised an eyebrow, completing the doubting look with a sarcastic thumbs-up.

"Of course you weren't," he said in a mock-comforting voice. His mood then turned serious, like flicking a switch. "People change. Maybe we have. I mean, it's not like we_ fight _anymore." The last phrase was dripping with sarcasm.

"I didn't mean...I don't mean to hold a grudge."

"You had a right to," Dean said, brushing it off. Sam took a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what he was about to. He didn't know what Dean's reaction would be.

"I'm getting worse," he said. Dean raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"What? Do you mean you're feeling worse?"

"Not in that way," Sam replied.

"In what way, then?" Dean's eyebrows were now furrowed, his lips pressed together in his trademark concerned look. He studied Sam, looking for the answer in his face. Sam didn't say anything immediately. "Like, depression?"

"No," Sam assured. "I mean...I can't control it anymore."

"Oh," was all Dean said. But that tiny remark said it all.

"I've been sitting up at night thinking, and I'll see a shadow or hear something and it'll trigger something and all of a sudden I get angry. Every day it keeps building up, and I keep getting mad, furious, at everything, even you. I can't stop it."

Dean must have noticed how much he looked like he was about to start going on a rant. "Alright," he said in a somewhat attempt at a calming tone. "How long has this been happening?"

"The last week, ever since that night in the alley."

"Do you think what they did to you has anything to do with it?"

"No doubt," Sam said matter-of-factly.

"What was what they gave you?"

Sam really didn't want to explain, but Dean was genuinely curious, and it was something he needed to know about. "It's the first step. It's sort of like a sedative, only it weakens your mind. It works more specifically on psychics who naturally have more defenses up around their consciousness. It breaks those barriers down and lets the demon get in there and do what it wants to with your mind."

"So you think it might have weakened the walls--"

"--and let my other side in more. Yeah, I do." His voice sounded oddly uninterested, bored even though he needed Dean to understand. "But it's more than that. I don't think it even would have mattered."

Dean still looked away, but Sam continued with a more forceful tone so that Dean would have to listen to him. "None of the others lasted as long as I have before it took over in the first place, and I'm the only one that got out. There was no telling what could have happened."

Dean bit the side of his mouth as a distraction as he thought. "Why didn't you talk to me about this before?"

"I didn't want to scare you."

"Well, you_ definitely_ picked the right time to bring it up," Dean threw back sarcastically. "Like we needed another problem."

"You know what this means, don't you?" Sam asked, and Dean glanced at him tentatively. "It means that we're in a race, with three options trying to win out, and neither of us knows which is going to hit the big finish line first. This poison catches up with me, my other side takes over completely, or we find some way to get the antidote from them and I somehow manage to fight this off another day."

"I'm putting my money on horse number three, thank you very much," Dean said.

"It's not looking good, Dean," Sam insisted, but Dean shook his head, constantly in denial of the obvious. "Do you know what this means?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Dean said. "This isn't going to control you. You fought through it once; you can do it again. This demon isn't going to tell you what to do, and if anything happens to you, I'll--"

"You'll what?" Sam asked. "Perform an exorcism? Go for all the psychics to get this thing out of me? I'm not _possessed_."

"Maybe an exorcism could work. We've never tried it."

"It'll just piss me off," Sam answered, and Dean looked even more uncomfortable. "What?" he asked curiously. Dean looked like he didn't want to reply, but he did.

"I don't like when you refer to it and you as the same thing."

"We _are _the same thing. We're the same person. I can't fight myself, that's the problem. I'll never be able to last."

"Yes, you will," Dean said angrily.

"This is going to get me, no matter how far we run or how hard we fight. And when it does, you need to do what you need to do."

"I'm not even going to listen to you now," Dean said, his eyes narrowed, daring Sam to keep going. And he did.

"You've known how this was going to end since you found out what was wrong. You knew we were just buying time"

"No," Dean said stubbornly. "I don't think I _got _that memo."

"What did you _expect_?" Sam threw back. "A happy ending?"

"I expected you not to be so freaking stupid and just give up."

"You knew," Sam repeated. "You were just getting me back for a few more months, a year maybe. You were just getting time to say goodbye, and to get ready for what you knew you needed to do."

Dean didn't answer.

"I'm a time bomb, and you have to be ready for what you always knew you had to do."

**Author's Note: Hope you liked the chapter. I'm afraid to say I won't be sure how long it will be between updates for a few more weeks. It depends on school, and whether or not my teachers continue to be this cruel. I had to rush in between projects to get this chapter written. The one project I might have fun during, a debate about the American Revolution with people form each side, the Patriots and the Loyalists, and I get stuck as a neutral. Ugh! **

**Anyway, this chapter was originally going to be set to a song and was going to be half as long (hey, that rhymes), but it didn't work out, so I added a lot more to it to make up for that. It really didn't have much happening before. **

**(-Do not read below if you do not want semi-spoilers for the upcoming episodes of season 2 in the US-) **

**One more thing: I can't believe the promos for the new episode, Born Under A Bad Sigh, which is this Thursday for the US. Let me just say really quickly about how the plot was going to develop for season 2 about Sam: I called it!!! Sorry, lol. No, forget I said that. I've also seen the promo pictures on super .emedian .net, and let me say, I'm creeped out, especially by the one in the bottom row (If you want to check it out, it's really freaky, and something I've actually wanted to see on the show for a VERY long time. If you can't get to it, I can e-mail you the link). I'm excited. I never thought this would actually happen on the show. For some reason, I can't get on the CW website to see the director's cut clips, and that's killing me. Grrr... **

**Up Next: The vision. Can't tell you much else. Review! Don't hesitate to ask questions or give criticisms.**


	56. Traffic and Music and Visions, Oh My!

**Traffic and Music and Visions, Oh My!**

**A/N: Lamest. Chapter title. EVER. I know, but I'm writing it at two thirty in the morning. I can't even think straight.**

"Are you feeling alright?" Dean asked for what seemed like the millionth time. Sam had stopped hearing it after the first two hours, simply responding 'I'm fine' every time Dean opened his mouth to ask.

Ever since their conversation earlier, Dean had been checking on him more often, and now he was asking about more than Sam's physical health. What he didn't realize was that he was actually making things worse by asking so frequently. Every time he asked, that little flicker of annoyance flamed up and Sam had to hurry to extinguish it before he totally lost it. He was beginning to get a little scared of just how easy it would be to push him over the edge. One fight would do it.

And his mental problems were just the beginning of it. Sam's world was fading, quickly and steadily, dissolving so that everything, colors, sounds, were muddled together to such an extent that nothing really made sense anymore. The constant pulse of the metal rock in the background seemed to meld in with his pulse, and soon the steady throbbing was all he could hear. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but if there was one instinct he still had left, that was to not close his eyes, as much as it hurt not too. As much as he wished for the oblivion.

"I'm fine," he managed to stay, making his voice sound as normal as possible. He blinked once more to clear out the haze in front of his eyes for a brief amount of time. Dean didn't look convinced; in fact, he looked the opposite. He looked positively terrified. "Really. I've felt like this on and off for the last couple of days. It's fine. Nothing serious is going to happen soon. Just give me a few asprin and I'll be good as new." He smiled weakly.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a nap or something?" Dean asked, concerned.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said. "You know my policy on that. Neither of us is going to get a decent sleep, especially me."

"I just thought it would help you get some of your energy back." Dean was stalling; there was no other reason he could be acting like this.

"Well, even if I was trying to sleep, the Metallica definitely wouldn't exactly lull me off to sweet dreams."

"Fine," Dean said, irritated at Sam's mood.

"Can I change to another station, or tape, or whatever?" Sam asked desperately. The hard, angry rock also wasn't helping his attitude. It was fueling his other side, which was sickly inspired by the violent riffs.

"No," Dean replied, shooting it down. Sam once more suppressed the urge to wrap his fingers around Dean's throat and squeeze. Not that he didn't want to do that on a normal basis, but in that case he meant it much more seriously. He had to be careful, and remember who he was. All he had to do was remember that and he would be fine.

"Why?" he asked stubbornly as he turned off the sound. The brief void of noise briefly stopped the hunger he had felt inside. He had wanted to let go, to do something reckless, and now he felt like himself.

"Because I haven't heard this tape in a month."

"You've played Master of Puppets so many times I think I can hum each individual instrument's part."

"You can get over that." He turned the music back on, and all of a sudden it was back. The need, the hunger that needed to be fueled by adrenaline. By blood. By something.

"Ten minutes. Let me change the station." Dean didn't catch the desperate tone of his voice.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Well, that doesn't exactly make sense, does it?"

"I will not have your shitty music come out of my speakers," Dean said, shaking his head.

"They're not your speakers. _I_ got the car, remember?" Sam had to remind himself to breathe. It was just music, and there was no reason to get mad at Dean. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how sensitive to things aorund him Sam was becoming. He didn't know how irreversible what was done to him was, and how it was meant to come back within a certain span of time. How it only got stronger the longer Sam held it back, how all of this fighting was just pissing it off. How there was no way of escape and how Sam felt like he was only going to get out of it one way.

"Yeah, well, I don't care. I'm not going to listen to that shit."

"Since when is your music worship-worthy and mine shit?"

"Because your generation's music is all screaming with loud guitar riffs that make no sense and lyrics that sound like some sixth-grader's love letter that he put in some girl's locker to impress her but just creeps her out because it describes how much their love is forbidden but he still loves her. It's a turn-off."

"My _generation_'s music? I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were a sixty year old man with a hearing aid named Paul who hates those little youngsters."

"I prefer the term 'whippersnappers'," Dean muttered sarcastically.

"It's alternative rock, Dean. It sounds a lot like your shit."

"You did_ not_ just call my music shit."

"You called _mine_ shit."

"That's different. Yours _is_ shit. Come on, all that punk and goth...plus that weird-ass echo, euro, whatever the hell you call it these days. The ones that have song names that sound like songs straight out of Sweeney Todd." Sam rolled his eyes, holding his hands up in defeat.

"Alright, I surrender to your hatred of all things modern."

"I do not hate all things modern."

"Name three modern bands."

Dean seriously thought about it for a moment. "Aerosmith?"

"Doesn't count."

"You know what, Sam?" Dean said, frustrated and obviously looking for the right insult. He eventually just gave up and muttered, "Bite me."

Sam couldn't help but smile a little bit as Dean focused his attention back on the road.

"You promised," he said, quietly, preparing himself for the outburst he knew was coming. Surprisingly, Dean remained calm, though he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "You made me a deal."

"I liked it better when you couldn't remember that," Dean said.

"To tell you the truth, so do I," Sam replied. "But here I am, not dead, and there you are, not keeping your end of the bargain."

"That promise didn't count."

"So promises made when your brother is dying don't count?"

"I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't mean it." He kept his eyes forward, and Sam nodded silently.

"Of course you didn't," Sam said. Dean glanced over at his younger brother and realized what he had said. He wasn't about to start another chick-flick moment, though.

"It's not..." He took a deep breath.

"I get it, really," Sam assured him. "I understand you were worried. You were desperate and you were trying to get my attention. It would only make sense that you would say anything you had to for my attention, even if you didn't mean it. I would have done the same thing."

Dean didn't respond right away. "I don't know if I meant it," he said eventually. "I didn't want you to die, and I needed you not to think nobody cared. I said what you needed to hear. And it worked. You can judge for yourself past that."

Sam nodded once more, but didn't share what his thoughts were on the matter. "We're going to have to stop, you know," Sam said instead. "If we don't, that kind of defeats the purpose."

"I know."

"So, any brilliant ideas?"

Dean took a deep breath, still staring out at the road in front of him. It took him quite a few moments to answer, and when he did, he spoke the truth. "No."

Sam closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the head rest of the seat. He willed his breathing to slow to a normal pace for once, but knew it wouldn't be good enough. Nothing he ever tried was going to be good enough to save himself.

"Look..." he said, abandoning all pretenses of acting strong. Even from where he was, he could hear the despair in his own voice. "Do you just want to pull off at the next exit, rent a hotel room and just call it a day? Maybe I do need some sleep, and I know you do, too." He was himself now and he didn't know how long that was going to last. If he was going to die, he was going to die as himself, not something that just happened to be there.

Dean caught on immediately. He knew what Sam meant. He knew that tone.

"No, I don't, Sam," he threw back, annoyed, but his voice had raised an octave. He was already too scared for rational thought, and he sure as hell wasn't going to sit in some hotel room and watch his brother die.

"Well, then, what do you want to do? Because driving around all day is definitely going to help us. We're running away when we should be taking them head-on."

"I'm doing the best I can here," Dean snapped. He stepped on the gas pedal, pushing them beyond the speed limit, and Sam looked out the window, knowing this conversation was over. "Look," Dean said, irritated, "if I let you pick the music will you shut up about--"

"Hold on," Sam cut him off when he saw the sign on the side of the road. "Pull off at this exit." Still annoyed, Dean glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly. "Just do it," Sam said brusquely, and Dean barely managed to swerve into the turn lane in time.

"What am I, your own personal monkey cab driver?" Sam truly found it amazing how Dean could try humor, as lame as it was, in a time like this.

"Just pull over wherever. I need to get the map out of the back."

Tentatively, Dean oblidged, pulling into a small grocery store. The parking lot was practically empty, and Sam wasted no time. He unbuckled his seatbelt and reached into the back seat for what Dean supposed was one of his bags. He apparently couldn't reach it, so he pushed his seat back.

"What the hell are you looking for?" Dean asked.

"I told you," Sam said, turning around with the full intent of climbing into the back seat. "The map."

"And what do you need the map for?" Dean said, narrowly avoiding as Sam put a leg in betweent he two seats to support himself before climbing back. "Whoa, Sam, watch it. Unneeded view of your ass. I like you, Sammy, but not like that. Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're breaking my heart, Dean," Sam threw back, tugging on his duffel that had been wedged in between two larger bags. "God, where the hell did you put that thing?"

"What thing?" Dean called.

"The map, dumbass!"

"Which one?"

Sam sighed from the backseat, and though Dean couldn't see him, he could tell his brother was rolling his eyes. "The only one we have."

"I think one of them is in the car."

"Which car?"

"Which map?"

"I told you already!"

"Well, you're going to have to be more specific, Sammy."

"The big red map that we use every fucking time we need a map," Sam threw back.

"I don't use maps," Dean said.

"I do."

"Well, I don't pay attention to you when you're looking at the map. Whenever I say something, you get all bitchy because I 'distracted you' and 'If we had just asked for directions at the gas station we wouldn't be in this mess.' I should just start calling you Samantha and tell everyone we're married from now on, because apparently it's already half-true."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"You."

"Would you prefer 'Shut up, honey'?"

"No, 'Shut up' is fine, thank you." Sam's head popped up in between the seats, looking more than a little frustrated. "Just tell me where you put it last. I saw it in the Impala before it got wrecked, and you had it afterwards."

"I swear to god, Samantha, I don't know where the freaking map went."

"Stop calling me Samantha."

"Whatever you say."

Sam rolled his eyes. "The red one. It's more like a book, it was basically falling apart."

"Oh,_ that_ map," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes once more. "Yeah, that was in the other car. Nora has it."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"Because I didn't know," Dean defended. Upon seeing Sam's face, he added, "Look, I'll go into this store right here and get you a new map. One that's not falling apart. It's not like I killed your puppy or anything." He yanked the door open. "Just stay here."

Sam pushed his door open anyway, and nearly came toppling out, along with two other bags that had been leaning against the door.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car."

"I'm coming with you," Sam said as he sped up his pace. He batted a branch away as he nearly ran into one of the trees by the side of the parking lot marking the border between it and the road. Dean paused for a split second before bolting across the street.

"What?" Dean called on the other side. "Are you afraid I'll get the August edition intead of the January one?"

"We're not splitting up," Sam called, checking the traffic uneasily, knowing Dean would bolt in about twenty seconds if he didn't get across. "You know how badly that turned out last time."

"What?!" Dean yelled back, gesturing that he didn't understand what Sam was saying. Sam knew he was faking it.

"We're not splitting up!" Sam called back anyway.

"Get the stick out of your ass, Sammy," Dean said, turning around. Sam called his name, the traffic too heavy, but Dean just waved at him.

"Dean!"

"I'm not the one who needs some quiet time alone!" Dean said, turning back. "Get your head on straight, Sam! I need your head clear! Stop talking about this stupid suicide shit!"

"What suicide shit?!" Dean shook his head and turned once more.

"Dean, stop!" The traffic was starting to thin, but he couldn't see an opening yet. "I'm not trying to sound suicidal here! I'm trying to be realistic!"

"Well screw that, Sam," Dean snapped. "If you want to be all depressed and shit, fine! But you're my brother, and I'm not going to let you ruin your fucking life! So shut up, put on your big girl panties, and deal with the fact that, yeah, it's a tough world! We live in it, and it might just rip you to shreds sometimes! But that's only if you let it! If you keep being a stupid depressed little whiner like you are now! Now either sit in the fucking car or come into the store with me, shut up about this, and fight this!"

Dean took a deep breath and watched Sam between the cars who were coming slower now. When Sam didn't move, Dean scoffed and turned once more.

"Did you mean it?" Sam yelled quickly, stopping Dean in his tracks.

"Mean what?" Dean asked, irritated, and Sam swallowed.

"When you said you'd never forgive me if I died. Did you mean that? Or were you just saying it?"

"How is that important?"

"I need to know," Sam called, sprinting across the road at a gap. He stopped at the island in the center, and he could see Dean's face clearly. He knew what Sam was getting at.

"I knew it was what you wanted to hear," Dean answered.

"Don't throw me that bullshit again, Dean," Sam said. "You never answered my question."

"You know what, Sam? You should know the answer to that yourself."

"I need to hear you say that you don't want me to die."

"Or what? You'll off yourself? I don't think so."

"Please."

"I don't have to tell you anything more about it, Sammy," was all Dean would say, and started to walk away. "Are you coming?"

Still frustrated, Sam ran across the road, and a car honked at him as he did, but he ignored it.

"Alright," Dean said, satisfied, like nothing had happened, and walked off. Sam followed him into the grocery store, wincing at the bright light automatically.

"Why don't you go get some asprin or something? Our supply is basically out. You've used most of them up already." Sam shot him a suspicious look, but Dean merely rolled his eyes, going to push the doors open before realizing they were automatic. "I'll only be across the store. Go." He gave Sam a brief push down the medicine aisle before ducking into the next, angling towards the magazine section ten aisles down where he saw a display of maps.

Sam spent the next few minutes looking through the medicine, reading every label though he knew exactly which one he was going to get. He needed something to get his mind off of everything, and squinting to read the tiny print was hard enough.

His head felt like it was going to implode. In fact, all of his symptoms were getting exponentially worse by the minute. He actually almost started laughing at the absurdity of the situation. He was dying, getting closer every minute, and where was he? Not trying to save himself, just buying asprin like it was any other day. He wondered vaguely if this was how he was going to die. In pain, resigned, and alone because Dean couldn't accept the inevitable.

_"Are you sure you want to kow how this ends, Sammy?"_ a voice said, and he spun around, the bottle slipping out of his hands.

_"Don't be that way,"_ the demon continued, and this time it was inside his own head, scrambling to get out. It was reverberating against his skull painfully. _"This isn't exactly the first time you've heard from me this way, and _you_ were the one that wanted to know."_

"Leave me alone," Sam muttered out loud through gritted teeth.

_"You're going to find out soon anyway. Remember, never ask for the truth unless you're sure you want to know."_

"What?" was all he could force out before he real pain took him. This time, it was something he was familiar with, but that didn't make it any better.

He gasped out one last time, falling into one of the displays, before the vision took him over.

* * *

_Everything was in blackness. He had no idea whether or not his eyes were open or closed. He had no idea what his body was doing, period. He didn't have a body, not here. Not in this plane. His world, his sense of reality and the rules that went with that reality were gone._

_The world he was in now had never made any sense to him. All sense of logic was gone, dissapating into the thousands of fragmented scenes. His consciousness altogether was gone as well. He was part of everything._

_This time around, the images were going by faster than usual. He couldn't decipher any of them. Only one voice that was steadily getting closer._

_"Come on, run!" someone was sreaming at the top of their lungs to be heard above the growing roar. That was Dean's voice._

_He didn't understand until his world erupted in fire. The sound would have been deafening to any, and the heat and debris would have killed him, but there was nothing to kill. Not now. He wasn't there for that._

_The fire was suddenly gone, replaced with the usual black, the so called 'waiting room' of visions. But this time was different. There were others there. Voices in the dark, and he was surprised to discover he recognized them. Probably because a lot of them were the same voices, saying different things with different feelings. From different times._

_There were so many of them. Too many of them at once. He couldn't handle it. He was overwhelmed. And though he couldn't set them apart, he could feel what they were feeling. He was every single one of them._

_He just didn't know why._

_They were all vying for his attention, to push to the surface so he could hear what they had to say, even though they weren't talking to him. They didn't even know he could hear them._

_"Will that be one bed or two?" a raspy, old-sounding voice asked warily. That was one of those he couldn't place. The voice was completely unfamiliar, and he didn't have time to think about who it was before the next one came along. _

_"You lied to me," the next said. That one was Dean, and he was far from hiding how hurt he was. "Why would you--" He was cut off._

_The next ones came so fast, Sam couldn't even bother to decide who they belonged to. They weren't parts of a conversation, that was for sure. They were all bits and peices from others._

_"Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."_

_"Don't do this."_

_"One move and I will kill him, I swear."_

_"Do you trust me?"_

_Then the images came, battling their way up just like the sounds did, but with far more intensity. There were once more just too many._

_One moment he was in a forest, the next he was in a hallway. One moment he was in the middle of fire, and the next he was engulfed in water._

_Then the images slowed. They stretched out longer, became scenes. His mind had somehow picked out the most important to show him._

_Suddenly, he was back in the grocery store, only it wasn't what it was like before. Everything was drenching wet, and water poured from the sprinklers on the roof. The power had also gone off, throwing them into considerable darkness._

_Then he saw himself, drenching wet from head to foot, shaking his head to get his soggy hair out of his face as he ran at top speed._

_A gunshot rang out, and Dean came sprinting from the opposite end of the store. Another person holding a gun skidded around the corner after him, firing another shot. Dean slid on the slippery floor, but managed to turn that to his advantage, quickly pulling himself around one of the first row of cash registers._

_He took another run for it, leaping over the second section in one try as he called Sam's name. The youngest Winchester was close behind him, keeping pace, though his face was deathly pale._

_The scene blacked out, and it was much calmer where they were then. It was a hotel room, completely silent. Deathly silent._

_Dean was laying on the bed, his face ghostly white, and for a split second Sam thought he was dead. But he wasn't. Not yet, anyway. He was bleeding from small injuries all over his body, and he was unconscious, but his chest rose and fell normally._

_The Sam saw himself._

_This Sam Winchester wasn't faring as well as Sam was now. He was further along with the poison, and had abandoned trying to stand. His hands were covered in blood that looked like he had attempted to wash off and failed. His clothes were covered in it, and part of his arm looked like it had been burned. He sat against the side of the bed where Dean lay, his head resting against it. It was apparent he was exhausted, more so than he had ever been. His eyes were barely open anymore, and he looked around the room desperately, as if determined to remember every detail of the shabby, second-hand room._

_He reached out for something next to him, his hands feeling around the floor like he had suddenly gone blind. He finally found the strap of his bag and pulled it towards himself. He was about to attempt at undoing the clasps before turning around briefly to take a good look at Dean._

_"Dean," Sam said hoarsely, and his tone was almost pleading. "Can you wake up for me? Just a few minutes?" It took a split second to realize this Sam wasn't worried about Dean's health. The older man had been through much worse. No, Sam wanted him awake for another reason, one that was painfully obvious in his distraught features._

_He waited for about twenty seconds before giving up, biting his lip. He nodded, as if to give himself strength. He sorted through the bag he was holding, finally pulling out his cell phone. He opened it up, his hands weak and shaking. __He didn't dial immediately. He closed his eyes for a moment, too dizzy or tired to concentrate. __His fingers moved slowly over the keys and it took several tries, but he got the number he wanted. He pressed send and pulled it up to his ear._

_"Come on," he muttered desperately into the phone., his eyes closed, almost in prayer. "Pick up." He must have heard something he didn't like on the other end, because he soon hissed, "Shit, dad, answer your phone for once." He had gotten the machine. _

_"Dad," he said weakly into the phone. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried, we tried, we really did, but I just...I don't have much time, and I wanted...well, I wanted to say goodbye."_

Sam's vision flickered, and for a second he could almost feel his body again, and he could feel someone's hand on his shoulder, and then one hooking under his arm, pulling him to his feet. For some reason, he couldn't even feel his body as he moved, and he couldn't stop himself from complying with the person supporting him.

_He__ was snapped back into the vision before he had a chance to do anything, and his mind was temporarily erased of the memory. Sam had finished his call to John, and was now pushing another button on the phone. Sam could see from where he was that he had left a voice memo. He had left two messages behind, one on John's phone, and one on his own. Even though that was himself, Sam had no idea what he had done._

_The Sam in the future turned once more to his older brother, checking on him. He was still out of it considerably, and Sam slumped back against the bed, his breathing irregular from either the poison or the panic. His eyes showed just how terrified he was. And what made it worse was that he was alone._

_"Sam?" Dean asked groggily. Sam turned around, seeing his brother was still half-unconscious. The youngest Winchester pulled himself up as best he could, leaning his weight on the bed. He seemed to have made a decision, one he didn't like but was going through with anyway._

_"Hey, Dean," he said gently, his voice calm so Dean wouldn't fully wake up. He probably wouldn't even remember the exchange._

_"Sam," Dean repeated, squinting a little. He seemed to be getting a bit concerned, but not enough. "'re you okay?"_

_"Oh, I'm fine," Sam insisted, though he knew he wasn't. "Just go back to sleep," he prodded, smiling. Dean was looking directly into his eyes now, and somehow he looked like he knew what was wrong, but he couldn't wake himself up enough. "You need it. And I promise," he continued, squeezing Dean's arm supportively, "that I'll be right here when you wake up." He smiled again._

_Then the voices started again, as disjointed as the first. They were all from different conversations, different periods of time. The voices echoed every time, making it almost impossible to tell who was speaking them or when._

_"We did it," a weak voice said first, and it was surprisingly the loudest one, though in real life it must have only been whispered._

_"Don't you think it's time..."_

_"How could we get this far and end like this?"_

_Sam's head was spinning, all the voices pushing at the sides of his head. There were too many, more than he'd ever heard at and rock concert, and he was pretty sure his head was going to explode at any minute. Very few were intelligible, and he had no desire to try and decode them. Yet somehow he had the feeling he wouldn't be released from this until he heard what he needed to. So he let go and listened._

_"You lied to me!" That was the only one so far he had heard a second time._

_"You're not him!"_

_"I'm sorry I have to do this. I really liked you."_

_Three shots rang out._

_"No!" someone screamed. That was from his vision. That was him screaming, he was almost positive._

_"Stop it," another voice said, weakly but insistently, just as another chimed it._

_"Yes, I am, I swear! Please."_

_"Can you look him in the eyes, still," it said, and this time Sam recognized the hiss, "knowing that** you** chose this fate for him?"_

_"I need you to promise me something."_

_"You son of a bitch!"_

_"Look at him!"_

_"I can't do this anymore."_

_"He's been gone for two months now. You need to..."_

_"Don't leave me like this."_

_"We're not that different, you and I."_

_"Look him in the eyes for once in your pathetic life."_

_"I can't move on."_

_"Do you have any idea who I am?"_

_"This was my room."_

_"I'll give you one last chance to say goodbye. Don't waste it."_

_"I want you to look him in the eyes and tell him the truth."_

_"We need a doctor!"_

_"Don't worry. You won't die yet."_

_"He's gone." If Sam had been in his body, the tone of voice presented would have sent shudders down his spine._

_"It's going to be fine."_

_"Tell him how you're going to be the one to end his life."_

_"Please, do this for me."_

_"Time of death--"_

_"Mr. Winchester, we need to ask you a few questions."_

_"--9:33 AM."_

_"You can't give up on me."_

_"I'm ready."_

_Everything stopped. The voices, the images, everything. For a second, Sam thought he must be dead. But then he saw one last thing before the blackness took him over. It was like watching a movie, and all he could see were the faces in front of him, their surroundings black._

_He saw himself, a gun trained on someone coldly. His eyes were pitch black._

_"Any last words?" he asked._

_Then he saw who else was in the room, his face barely visible in the dim light. Dean's face was expressionless, with no sign of fear. He looked disappointed, if anything, and sad. He shook his head silently. Sam and Dean stared at each other for a long minute, and Sam looked like he was hesitating with something. Something Dean had said must have thrown him off._

_Sam nodded. "Fine, then," he said, and for a tiny second he hesitated once more, but not long enough. A shot rang out._

_Sam's vision blurred for another moment, and then he could see Dean again. Someone was holding him in place, and he was struggling, but this person was strong, and about as tall as Sam. Sam would have been confused if he was coherent enough. He didn't understand; it was like he had just rewound the scene to before the other vision. Something was off. _

_The man holding Dean gripped him by the hair and pulled his head to the side so he could speak directly into his ear. Dean looked disgusted, and his face was contorted with rage._

_"You won't--"_

_"Yes, we will," the man hissed, and Dean gritted his teeth. Suddenly the man's face turned into a sort of mock comforting expression. __"It'll only last for a second, I promise," he said. "Then it'll be over. It probably won't even hurt."_

_Dean looked far from relieved. He closed his eyes, biting his lip. When he opened his eyes again, he was terrified, desperate. That only lasted for a second as he shoved it back down. Hatred was shining through, and he looked determined not to give them any more satisfaction._

_"I'm sorry I had to do this. I really liked you." Now Sam knew the voice. It hadn't been Meg. It had been Nora all along, he had just been too blind to see it before._

_Dean shook his head, clenching his teeth. "No," he whispered. _

_The world went black._

_Three shots rang out._

_"NO!!" the voice screamed once more._

_

* * *

Sam gasped as he came back into awareness, and he couldn't take it. His senses were coming back to him too fast, and he felt shot. He didn't have enough energy to think, even, and his legs gave out underneath him in shock._

He saw he hadn't walked far with whoever it was, but they didn't seem to be too happy about him falling.

"You know the routine," a tired voice said. "Breathe through it." Sam felt a tug on his sleeve and once more he found he didn't have the mental or physical resistance in him. His mind was reeling from what he had seen. There had been so much more that usual, too much. He could usually only handle one and barely even then. His mind was in overload. There were too many things, and he found himself pushing them away in reflex. He didn't want to see or hear anything anymore. There was no telling what could happen to him in this vulnerable state.

Too late. "We've gone over this routine a thousand times, but you never could calm yourself down," the voice continued, irritated as they hauled him up to his feet with inhuman strength. Sam could tell they were rolling their eyes. Get up," she commanded, her gun at his head, and he looked up into Meg's eyes.

"Oh, shit," Sam said.

**Author's Note: I understand if the vision was confusing, but it was suppoed to be. I guess it was supposed to be open for interpretation in some ways. I'm not saying both of those last two will come true; in fact, if they're the same scene they both can't come true. It just couldn't work. Remember, visions are not set in stone, and it's possible he was seeing multiple futures that could come to pass. Most of the quotes will occur though, some really soon, some farther away. Some MUCH farther away. Some are even from the planned sequel I have coming up.**

**BTW, my updates might be a little far apart coming up. (A week or two for the next one, maybe.) I can't be sure, but things at school are crazy, and I'm also working on the concept for a few other stories I might end up posting if I like them, including a oneshot tag for this week's AWESOME episode Born Under A Bad Sign, possibly my favorite episode to date. Evil Sam was perfect, exactly how I always hoped he would be, and I was glad they didn't tone it down because they thought Jared couldn't handle it. He acted the HELL out of it! Man, he gave me chills, he was so great in it. (My favorite moment was a tie between "My daddy shot your daddy in the head" and the evil laugh during the exorcism.) It just got me excited because I know I have to write evil Sam in a few chapter, which I always love. I have always loved Evil Sam.**

**Until next time...(REVIEW, PLEASE!!!!)**


	57. What Was That?

**Chapter 57: What Was That?**

**Author's Note: Sorry this took so long to get out. The reason is that it was supposed to have more to it, so it took me awhile to write that part, and that ended up being really long, so I had to break it into two chapters. I've been really trying to cut down the amount of chapters because this is getting so long and I'm afraid people will stop reading or something. I have six more chapters planned out after this before the end, but if I keep having to break it up there might be more. See why I can never manage to tell you guys how much longer this is going to be? lol.**

"Nice to see you again, too, Sammy," Meg said casually, like they were having a normal conversation that didn't involve her pointing a gun at him. Sam briefly glanced around; barely anyone was in the store, and those who were didn't notice. Meg had walked forward, and was now standing so close the gun wouldn't be visible from a distance. "Let's walk."

She nudged him forward, and he complied. Meg strode at his side, slightly behind him so she could still press the gun to his back. He was already working on a way to twist it out of her hands.

"Don't even think about it," she hissed at him.

"I'll think whatever the hell I want to," Sam said. Meg remained silent as she reached into his jacket pocket.

"Stop walking," she commanded, withdrawing her hand, holding Sam's cell phone. She flipped it open. "Call Dean, and tell him to meet you outside immediately." She held it out for him. He didn't take it.

"And if I don't?"

"Then, quite plain and simple, we beat the living shit out of him and_ make_ him come, then you get to kill him a few days from now, after we make his and your lives a living hell."

"I thought that was _already_ the plan?"

"Well, smartass, it is, but now if you don't cooperate we also burn this building down to the ground and kill everybody inside." Sam swallowed, struggling to keep his expression calm, though the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach. He didn't really have a choice in the matter. "You know we'll do it," Meg prompted, holding the cell phone out. She'd already dialed, and he grabbed it, holding it to his ear.

_"Yeah?" _Dean answered impatiently.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said hesitantly. "I've got my stuff already. I'm going to head out to the car. I'll meet you out there."

_"Sure, Sam," _Dean said, his voice a little suspicious. _"Hold on, I'm a little lost in here. These people won't tell you where to find anything."_

"Yeah, it's a pretty funky town," Sam agreed. Dean hung up the phone.

"Was that so hard?" Meg asked.

"Bite me," Sam spat.

"Your brother's wearing off on you," Meg said, smirking. "I remember last time I saw you like this. You've got quite a foul mouth when you're pissed off. I'm sure Dean'll be proud of that." Sam glared. "Let's go, Sammy," she prodded, and he started walking, while pulling out her own cell phone. She had dialed in a matter of seconds.

"Yeah, James?" she said, and Sam's head snapped around. He knew James, and the fact he was here was not a good sign. Meg motioned with her hand for him to keep his eyes ahead. "We have a situation."

Sam had a bad feeling about this. His hands clenched at his sides as Meg listened, nodding. "Yep, definitely a code word. He's on the other side of the building, heading our way. Head him off, will you?" She snapped the phone closed with a swift click. She raised an eyebrow. "_Funky town?_ That has to be the worst code phrase I have ever heard in my entire _life_." She rolled her eyes. "Let me guess: Dean's idea?" Sam kept his mouth shut. "I thought so. You're smarter than that." She laughed shortly. "Too bad it didn't work. I give him two minutes, tops. We're not stupid."

It was at that moment she was distracted as the fire alarm went off, the sprinklers kicking in and drenching them in freezing cold water. Someone screamed at the front of the store. Meg froze for a second, and Sam used the opportunity to elbow her in the stomach, grabbing her gun. He didn't bother to try and shoot her or threaten her; neither would do any good at anything but distracting her.

So he ran for it, watching out for the puddles and the slippery floor, shaking his sopping wet hair out of his eyes. He regretted not getting it cut; the bangs were just too damn long. His jacket was weighing him down, so he took it off as he was running, letting it drop to the floor. He ignored his sudden dizziness and the fact that he suddenly felt exhausted. Somehow, even though he was sicker than he'd ever been, he was running faster than he had in his entire life. That was what adrenaline was there for, he guessed.

Someone screamed again when the first shot rang out, and by the sound of it, hit some of the produce in the aisle. Sam didn't bother to lower his face as he sprinted past the security camera. He didn't have much to lose anymore.

Meg was keeping pace behind him, but he had a good lead. He stopped for a second to throw a shopping basket at her, slowing her down for a moment, but he had to start running immediately.

He skidded, turning the corner into the front of the store, half expecting a dozen of the demons to be waiting for him, but they weren't, just like he had seen in his vision. Most of the customers had already managed to get outside of the store, away from the possible fire, and now, the growing crime scene. Sam was relieved; nobody was going to get hurt because of him.

Dean sprinted out of the other end of the store just like Sam had seen him in the vision. A man that Sam now recognized as James, one of the few people like him he had met in his time with the demon, was right behind him. James didn't have many useful powers in situations like these; he could only see the future, unlike Sam, who was one of the few who had multiple abilities, but he had been with the demon for many years. He had become a very good fighter, and he wouldn't hesitate for a second in battle.

Dean wasn't faring as well as Sam was. He hadn't gotten much of a lead on James, and there was a broad gash on his forehead. Sam called out his name and he looked up, relief written on his face. He didn't pause for a moment, though.

He was running as fast as could, but he wasn't watching where his feet went, so he slid on the floor, just as he had in Sam's vision, only this time it was farther away from before. He wasn't as focused, and only crashed into one of the tables. He pulled himself up quickly, but James was there. Dean kicked his legs out from under him, but James recovered faster than Sam would have thought possible and grabbed Dean by the back of his jacket roughly, hauling him to his feet once more. His arm wrapped around Dean, using him as a human shield, he held the gun to Dean's head.

Sam didn't hesitate for a moment. He didn't even think about how stupid it was, or what the consequences would be if he messed up. He didn't take in Dean and James' eyes widen as he prepared, or the fact Meg was behind him. He didn't break stride. It was like his body was moving on its own, and he had no control over it.

He pulled Meg's gun out, barely took a second to aim, and shot.

He didn't know if it was pure luck or his powers coming out, or just a figment of his imagination, but the bullet hit James right between the eyes. Of course, it didn't kill him, but it startled him and sent him falling backwards. It would take him awhile to heal that and recover enough to give chase. Dean squirmed free and sprinted as fast as possible to the counters. He skidded behind the first checkout counter, and then jumped over the second, yelling Sam's name.

"Come on!" he yelled, but Meg was catching up with Sam. He dropped to the ground, knocking her legs out from underneath her. She fell on her back, and when Sam came closer, she kicked out with surprising force. Sam crashed into one of the aisles as Meg regained her footing. She slammed his head against the aisle again, and he elbowed her in the face. Sam took the opening, ran and leapt onto the counter. He didn't bother to jump down for the second row of counters. He jumped over them, and Dean kept his pace, slamming his fist frantically into the emergency opening doors, glancing over his shoulder and hoping the water hadn't shorted out anything in the automatic doors. They creaked open a few inches, not wide enough for either of them to get through.

"Dean, keep you head down!" Sam yelled, for his brother had been staring into the direction of the security camera.

"It doesn't matter," Dean threw back before slamming his foot between the now-closing doors. He wedged his arms in and pushed. With a metallic screech, they opened grudgingly, and Dean practically fell outside, but not before yanking Sam after him. He missed the closing by a second.

Dean continued pulling Sam forward, though Sam didn't need any more incentive to move faster. Still, Dean didn't seem to be willing to let his grip on Sam's arm go as he kept up his pace. A small crowd was gathering outside the grocery store, and some local cops were talking to a few people. Some of them were waiting outside the door.

"That's them," a woman told one of the cops quietly, and the bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. If it startled Dean, too, he didn't show it. His face was stony, determined, and he yanked on Sam's jacket another time insistently as he pushed through a few people, for the youngest Winchester had stopped for a second.

"They won't attack around a crowd, and we're drawing attention to ourselves," Sam muttered to Dean, who ignored him. After a few seconds, he stopped, hearing something. Without warning, Sam found himself shoved to the ground by Dean, who dropped as soon as he did. A second later, Sam sensed Dean getting up, pulling his own gun out, and someone nearby screamed. A baby was crying a few yards away, and Sam prayed that bullet that had been meant for them hadn't hit anyone else.

"Told you so," Dean said under his breath. "Sons of bitches." He shot at Meg's form and she dodged out of the way. The bullet shattered what was left of the glass in the automatic doors.

"Drop your weapons," a cop on a megaphone was yelling to both parties. Neither Dean nor Meg dropped their weapons, though Meg reached for something in her pocket.

"Relax, officer," she called to him, pulling out her wallet. "FBI here."

Sam threw Dean a worried glance that said it all. They knew where this was going. Dean swallowed. They couldn't take all of these people, not without getting caught.

"Both of these men are wanted criminals," Meg continued, showing her badge as she approached the officer. "Dean and Sam Winchester, responsible for a total of five murders and at large for five months. Arson, mail fraud, credit card fraud, theft, armed robbery, desecration, kidnapping, and first degree pre-meditated murder." She raised an eyebrow at the cop, knowing that she now had the power in the situation. The other cops were now filing off the other witnesses for their own safety behind the building. "I have orders to bring both of them into my custody, alive...preferably." She smiled dryly.

"Sam..." Dean said, his gun still out. "Any ideas?"

"Which one of us would they least expect to be a total psychopath?" Sam asked, preoccupied, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

"How does that help us?"

"Drop your weapons," Meg called to them. "I'm not going to ask you again."

"Which one of us looks more threatening?" Sam clarified.

"Well, you in your evil psycho form is pretty effective," Dean admitted. "Think you can pull it off?"

Sam smiled over at him, and Dean felt the pit of his stomach drop out. His eyes, though not considerably darkened, had changed somewhat.

"Relax," Sam insisted in his normal voice that sounded nothing like the one he adopted when he morphed into 'Darth Vader Sam'. It was for show. Still, Dean didn't exactly feel as safe as he usually did around his family. Sam had slipped Dean's extra gun, which had been laying out of view, into his back pocket and pulled his jacket over it. "Watch this," he muttered with another smirk, standing up. Dean threw him a warning glance. "I'm not going to hurt anyone," Sam hissed at him. "I promise."

He laid his gun down on the ground in front of him, and Dean followed his example. He smiled calmly, but there was a touch of something in his eyes, and the cop saw that. Something else was shining through, and he didn't like it.

"Calm down," Sam said, his voice perfectly imitating the commanding tone he heard Meg often use. He still couldn't quite reach the total evil potential he used to have, but Dean guessed he wouldn't be able to do that unless he actually gave in to it. "I'll cooperate."

He kept eye contact up with Meg the whole time he spoke, and she seemed to understand his bluff. The officer, on the other hand, was shooting her nervous glances.

"Sir, we're going to ask you to remove your jacket to make sure you don't have any concealed weapons," he said.

"And?" Sam asked coolly, and Dean was getting concerned. His voice was downright creepy now, threatening, even. The cop had his gun out, and two of his men did, too, all trained on Sam, who just walked forward without fear. This wasn't Sam anymore, not 100 percent anyway.

"Sam..." Dean said warningly.

"Relax, Dean," Sam assured him in a mutter. "I've got this." He kept walking forward. "Listen, Donald," Sam said, smiling innocently, and the cop looked startled that Sam knew his name. "You have a nametag on," Sam answered and laughed warmly. "You don't want to do this." As he got closer, Donald cocked his gun in warning, and Sam held a hand out. "You don't want to kill me. You just want to _put your gun down and walk away from me."_

Dean felt something rip through his mind, and the words reverberated in his head painfully, like a strange echo. He wondered if anyone else heard it.

Apparently they had. Donald looked caught off guard was even listening to Sam, and to Dean's intense amazement laid his gun down and turned away. All of the other cops looked awestruck, keeping their guns at the ready, but they hadn't understood what had just happened. Sam just looked smug.

It didn't work on Meg, apparently, as she still approached him. Dean still didn't understand his technique. Why send the cop away temporarily just to let Meg get him? And the two other cops were still ready, though thoroughly surprised. Obviously, he couldn't do to them what he did to Donald, who was now walking away, his eyes open in fear. His legs were moving against his will and he didn't even stop when his peers called his name.

"What did you do to him?" one of them called out.

"Don't listen to anything he says," Meg ordered. "His brother may do all the dirty work, but don't underestimate this one. He's the one giving us the most trouble these days. It doesn't look it, but he's the dangerous one."

Sam smiled. "Says the fake FBI agent," he said.

"Nice try, Winchester," Meg said, grinning right back at him. Dean was thoroughly creeped out at that point; they were throwing these things back at each other like it was a game. "You would know something about identity theft, wouldn't you? It's worked for you so many times. Not this time."

Sam's smile slid off rather freakishly. He had transformed, and the other side that had been awkwardly lurking under the surface was in control. The facade was gone, and Dean could see the cops shift uncomfortably. Sam had them scared even more. He had the control.

Dean thought he knew Sam's next move; it seemed natural Sam would go totally psycho and start shooting the place up, and was ready to tackle him of worst came to worst, but a strange force kept him planted to the ground.

"Sam..." Dean said again, and Sam's head snapped around at him so fast Dean was sure it wasn't humanly possible. He lost his balance, feeling like he had been shoved backward and hard as he tried he couldn't get his legs to move toward Sam.

Meg held her gun on Dean and motioned for him to stand against the car. Dean's feet unglued, but Sam still wouldn't look him in the eyes. Dean cooperated with Meg's instructions, and she checked for weapons. He didn't have any left, which left him feeling really naked. Meg instructed him to keep standing there, though she knew he had no intention of doing so.

"You move," she warned under her breath so only Dean could hear her, "and I kill Sammy over here, got it? I said alive was preferred, but not necessary."

Dean glared daggers at her but didn't move as she made her way to Sam. She didn't get far, and by the looks of it that's what she expected. Sam lashed out with his own gun, attempting to hit her with it in the head, but she grabbed his arm in midair. He kicked her in the shins and grabbed her arm, smashing her hand into the car. The gun went skidding on the ground, and Dean scooped it up immediately, aiming it. Sam pulled her body to him, the gun to her head. Though it wouldn't kill her, she wouldn't risk being exposed for what she truly was. Dean remembered Sam telling him that the demon would personally rid himself on any of his followers who had put themselves in the open for what they truly were.

Sam shoved Meg away from him. "Take her," he hissed at Dean, and Dean obeyed. He didn't like this Sam, but if they were going to get out of there alive.

Sam strode forward, his gun pointing a direct aim at Meg's head. "Alright," he said loudly, commanding, "here's how this is going to go. You are going to let us go, got it? Nobody has to get hurt."

* * *

It worked. They got as far as the road, but then Sam stopped. 

"Okay, Meg," Dean said, "We need to have a little talk."

"There's no time," Sam observed, his gaze flickering around him, scrutinizing the area. He was more or less back to normal, looking like he was still in shock over what he had done. His brow was furrowed as if he had a migraine, and he squinted into the distance. Dean had no idea what his sudden change back in the parking lot had done to him or what had brought it on, but one thing was sure: it had saved both of their asses. Dean didn't think he could have gone that far with it; whatever the other side had done, it wasn't all bad. Mostly, but not all.

"What?" Dean asked.

"We have to let her go," Sam said grudgingly, his upper lip twitching and showing how little he wanted to go through with it.

"What?" Dean repeated. Meg smirked.

"Backup is coming. They're only a minute or so away."

"How do you know?"

"I just know," Sam snapped. "We can't get out of here in time with a hostage. We'll move too slowly. There's not enough time."

"Sam, this might be our last chance."

"Do you want to go to jail?" Sam asked. Dean looked him straight in the eyes, trying to see the reason, and he did. Underneath all the layers of the calm exterior, Sam was just scared. He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to go to jail, and he didn't want Dean brought down with him. This was their last chance. "Trust me," Sam said, almost a plea.

Dean trusted him.

* * *

The first thirty yards were the easiest, other than the cars that almost ran them over. Neither of them stopped, even when Sam began to feel lightheaded. He knew by doing this he was just weakening himself, making himself more susceptible to the poison, but it wasn't like he had a choice. 

Dean all but leaped over the hood of the car to get to the driver's side faster. The sirens were blaring in the distance, getting closer every second.

"Dean start the car, now!" Sam all but yelled.

"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" Dean hissed, reaching into his pocket for them. "Fuck!" he cursed.

""What?"

"I can't find them, that's what," he said.

"Oh, shit," Sam said. He could see the cop cars starting to arrive.

"Dean, they know."

"Sirs," someone was demanding from far away, probably with a megaphone, "exit the car with your hands in the air."

"So they saw our faces," Dean mumbled from where he was, hunched over in his seat, trying to get the wires to spark. "Big deal. I think we have bigger issues."

"Dean, they know about you," he reiterated. "You're supposed to be dead, remember?"

"Sam, shut the hell up for five seconds," Dean muttered, concentrating.

"Get out of the car," the cop was demanding once more, but Sam's attention was diverted. He had a feeling.

"Dean..." he said suspiciously, and Dean sat up.

"Sam--" He didn't get to finish his sentence, as Sam had shoved him down, dropping down himself. The glass shattered everywhere as two shots rang through the air. Suddenly, the cops were looking elsewhere.

Remaining crouched down, Sam loaded his gun.

"Dean," he whispered, and Dean turned to him. "Finish hotwiring the car. I'm going to try to distract them."

"You're going to get your brains blown out," Dean objected.

"No, I won't," Sam insisted, and Dean nodded.

Sam pulled himself up, and dodged just as another shot came his way, shattering what glass there was left of his window. He raised his gun promptly, and somehow knew just where to aim, just by where the sound had come from.

The cops were looking clueless, just as they usually did. They had no idea where the shooters were, but Sam did. He had their attention easily.

Out of view, James was shooting. Sam's senses were on overload for some reason, and two perfect shots had diverted James' attention.

"Go," he said in a commanding tone. For once, Dean didn't comment; he obeyed, putting the gas on. Now it was the cops' turns to attempt and shoot out the tires or, in the case of some of the more violent cops, the Winchesters themselves. It was too late to get a good shot in, though. They were gone.

_"You're a natural, Sam," _the demon's voice taunted him. _"Even I was proud of that little stunt you pulled." _Sam ignored him, and eventually the unwelcome presence faded.

Dean drove faster than he ever had, swerving in and out of the cars with a frantic intensity.

"Okay," he said, his voice raising, "what the _fuck_ was that?!" He had kept it in for the whole time because he couldn't afford to get distracted, but now it was coming out.

"What the fuck was what?" Sam asked, avoiding the question.

"Were you, like, having an out-of-body experience or something? Did you black out?" Sam shook his head. "Then you know exactly what the hell I'm talking about. So tell me _what the fuck that was._"

"I don't know," Sam said uncertainly. "I just...did it. I don't know how or why, but I did."

"You lost control?"

"I think that loss of control is what saved both of our asses back there."

"You almost shot me, in case you didn't notice," Dean said angrily. "You threatened to shoot someone. That wasn't you back there. You'd never do something that crazy, even to save us."

"Well, apparently I would," Sam snapped. "And it worked."

"You could have lost control. Meg was_ right there_."

"Shut up, alright? I saved your life. I saved our lives. I did what I had to." Dean rolled his eyes in response, still breathing heavily, his face flushed. He wiped some of his hair out of his face and shook his head, sending droplets flying everywhere. They were both still drenching wet from the sprinklers.

"So..." he said. "Where to now?"

"Did you get the map?"

"I was a little preoccupied, Sammy," Dean said.

"Well?" Sam asked still, and Dean rolled his eyes again before reaching into his pocket.

"Since I didn't get a chance to pay for it, I guess that counts as stealing it..." he held out the partially-dry map out for Sam. "But I got it."

**A/N: I. Hate. School. I've been behind for awhile, and I spent two entire days straight working on my project on American Government (-gags-). Plus, at school the other day my friend got a little too into a game we all were playing and I ended up getting hit in the head with a frozen water bottle. So I got a concussion and couldn't sit up for about five hours and then the next morning I woke up and started getting sick to my stomach. So now I'm sick and have a black eye. Wonderful week, wasn't it?**

**Anyway...sorry this took awhile to get updated. I'm behind schedule, and I've ended up with a lot of it handwritten but I get lazy and can't find times to type it up and then I end up hating it.**

**Up Next: Um...my head hurts, so let me just tell you that in the next two chapters there's going to be another vision, a definite one, there's going to be an explosion, Dean's going to have a major blonde moment, Sam kicks someone's ass, Dean gets his ass kicked by a girl, and ultimately two chapters from now is going to end on a cliffie.**

**Before this A/n gets any longer than it already is, I'm just going to say REVIEW! Please, it's been a crappy week. Yes, I am so using the pity trick. I'm also using Sam's puppy dog eyes. (-drags Sam in and makes him do the puppy dog eyes-) Good, Sammy.**


	58. Can I Have My Sanity Back?

**Chapter 58: Can I Have My Sanity Back?**

_They say quitters never win__  
We walk the plank on a sinking ship  
Broken down on memory lane and all together we're alone._  
_-Don't You Know Who I Think I Am? by Fall Out Boy_

"Turn off here," Sam said quietly, peering out the side window. Over the last ten minutes of the drive, he had been giving instructions, seeming barely to even look at the map unless he needed something to do with his hands. He knew exactly where they needed to go.

Dean turned the car off the side of the road, barely getting onto the little dirt road. He hadn't even seen it at first, and had thought Sam just needed to get off for a second to calm down or something of the like. Now he saw the road, leading someplace Dean couldn't see. They weren't near any civilized town Dean had ever heard of; they were in the middle of nowhere, and he guessed that was a good thing. The cops wouldn't come and screw things up. They were past the point of running, of hiding in places the demon would have to trick them with. No, this was a fight. They were going to stand their ground for once.

The ride was bumpy to say the least. Both of the brothers bounced whole inches off their seats at regular intervals, and by the time it evened out, Dean felt like he had just been on some wild ride at the fair. Then the road evened out, and the house became visible.

It was odd. Though they were in the midst of winter and it was cold outside, barely any snow had collected. No ice hung from the roof, the deep river running nearby hadn't frozen, and the trees looked perfectly healthy. Everything was in perfect condition, though it was obvious the place had seen very little care for awhile. Sam wouldn't have chosen the place if anyone had lived there any time recently. It was like the land had been frozen in its peak. It creeped Dean out to no end.

The house fit in perfectly. Leaves scattered over its roof, in varying colors of red, brown, and yellow. Tiny bits of snow clumped around the edge peacefully, and the paint had only begun to fade. Even that added to the place's sense of calm. It looked classic, like some place taken directly out of a postcard picture.

The house was beautifully built, old-styled and coated in a maroon color, like an old farm house. The windows were dark, though, as if the curtains had been pulled, and Dean had a feeling there was something more sinister lurking behind them. It had two stories, and had been built so that part of it leaned over the river, so that the owner could see the nature perfectly.

Sam's door opened about thirty seconds after Dean's and by then the older man was finishing his scope of the land, looking for any advantages it could give him. He came up with nothing, other than its secluded location. It looked like a normal, pretty house, maybe a winter vacation spot for a family. He had no idea how Sam knew about it or why he had thought it would be a good place to stay.

Sam looked just as creeped out by the house as Dean. He shrugged his bag on his shoulder and stared at it for a long moment with a grim expression as Dean rubbed his hands together, pulling his jacket closer to his body. Sam didn't seem to notice the cold; his breath fogged in the air and he was shaking, but he had attention only for the house. It was apparent by his expression he wouldn't have come here unless he thought he absolutely had to. Dean couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he was sure it wasn't good.

They both started walking toward the house at the same time, their footsteps crunching on the ground the only sound in the place. There weren't even any birds chirping, and the rushing of the river even seemed to diminish as they drew nearer. When the steps creaked under Dean's foot he flinched, startled, though he had known what to expect. It made a cracking noise that echoed throughout the entire area.

Sam reached out for the doorknob, but his hand stopped inches away. He took a deep breath, mentally or physically preparing himself for it. Dean saved him the trouble and pushed the door open himself. Sam's face went white as he gazed in. Almost instantly, Sam dropped his eyes to the floor, forcing himself not to look up with all his might, though when he started walking he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

There was barely any furniture or homey touches like the outside would have led someone to believe. The wallpaper was dark brown, faded and peeling in most places. When Dean flicked a light switch on, only a small bulb ignited, hanging from the ceiling on a chain. He couldn't see any other switches or fuses, and the only other source of light filtered from between the dark curtains barring the front window. They were ripped in what looked like hand-sized tears, as if someone had violently wished not to see the outdoors.

The table was scratched in similar fashions, and the leg of it seemed to have been broken many times and repaired by simply sticking the pieces back together and precariously setting the table upright again. One of the chairs lay broken by the dented gas stove, where above it had left a sizeable hole in the wall. Dean passed it by without mentioning it.

"So what's the plan?" Dean asked.

Sam replied with a grim but truthful, "I don't really have one." He smiled sadly, still looking like he was attempting to hold his breakfast down. Dean didn't return the grin.

"So, let me get this straight," he said, more than a little angry, the stress finally catching up to him. "We're stuck in the middle of nowhere in a creepy old house with demons heading our way looking for blood and willing to do anything to get at us, not to mention the fact that your sanity is apparently slipping away slowly but surely and you're having visions that make no sense from what you've told me, about me dying in numerous gory ways, and that your insanity is in a race with the poison pumping through your veins, and _you don't have a plan_?"

"I don't have a plan," Sam confirmed simply. Dean took a deep breath, cursing as he ran a hand through his hair. This could not be happening. They could _not_ have dug a hole this deep. There was no way anyone could have gotten into this bad of a situation but them. It figured. It was just their luck.

"We are so screwed," Dean said, basically summing everything up. Sam swallowed and turned to the stairs, bracing himself. Dean didn't bother to ask any more questions. Sam looked like he was trying not to throw up again, back in his own little world, and Dean didn't bother to try and bring him back.

"You didn't have to come along," Sam said, almost to himself, as Dean followed him, glancing at the landing he was reaching. Two hallways led off in the opposite directions, and three doors were at the very top of the landing.

"Yeah, I did," Dean replied. Sam shrugged, dropping the subject for once. Once he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he took a sharp left, avoiding the first door as much as he could. If he was trying to hide it, he was doing a really bad job at it. His hip brushed the railing and he stayed glued to it the entire time he was within an eight-foot radius so he could stay as far away from it as humanly possible without falling off the edge. Dean chose not to comment on the issue.

Sam checked the doors after that, peering into all of them briefly except one other that he skipped and the one at the top of the stairs. Though he didn't seem as repulsed by the second one he skipped over, his face still looked tinged in green.

Sam finally chose a room he seemed satisfied with at the end of the hallway. He tossed his bag gently on the floor inside, pushing it open fully for Dean, who followed him in, surveying the room. It looked almost normal, if not rather boring, on first glance. Still, he could tell there was something wrong with it, and he looked closer.

The walls all had cracks in them. No big deal; it was an old house. And if it wasn't taken care of well in as long as Dean thought, then he was surprised it wasn't falling apart more than that.

The window was blacked out completely by something behind the curtains. Alright, a little creepy, but that depended on by what. He couldn't exactly go and check with Sam in the room, so he didn't. But the next thing he saw, on the wall right next to him, he couldn't keep in.

"Is this _blood_?" Dean asked, looking at the dark stain on the wall. Sam looked impartial and far from surprised. He kept unloading his bag, pulling out his laptop and starting it up. Dean didn't bother to ask.

"This house has a violent history," Sam answered simply, trying a bit too hard to cover up his lack of calm. Dean knew he had said the wrong thing, but he didn't bother to apologize. Sam's expression showed he hadn't really cared that much. The youngest Winchester picked up the large container of salt he had brought with him and unscrewed the cap, beginning to pour it in a solid line, starting below the window. "This'll be our safe room, in case of emergencies. The salt will keep the ones that are just plain old demons away, but he won't just send them. He'll send the kids like me, and the salt will only work like holy water on them. It's a hindrance and they'll hesitate for a minute, but they'll do it if they have orders. They'll die for him if they have to."

Dean remained silent, preferring not to mention how uncomfortable that last comment made him feel as he remembered it had applied to Sam at one point.

"Do you have the holy water?" Sam asked, pausing for a second to brush his unruly bangs from his forehead. His face was getting whiter by the minute and Dean noticed his hands were shaking. He tried to ignore it and pulled one of the two bottles of holy water from his pocket and tossed it to Sam, who barely caught it.

"Dude, are you alright?' Dean said, finally snapping. It was his job as a big brother to at least make sure Sam wasn't going to have an anxiety attack, or hyperventilate, or, god forbid, start crying. "It's okay if you're not. Maybe we shouldn't have come here. There are plenty of places--"

"I'm fine," Sam snapped unexpectedly, turning around angrily. Dean could tell he had been simmering below the surface for awhile, waiting for something to help get his anxiety out. "Now can I get the normal Dean back, the one that doesn't give a crap?"

"Look," Dean said, trying to placate Sam, who just looked like he was getting worse. In times like these, lately Dean had noticed the best way to get Sam to calm down was to not say anything bad back, just to agree with him, try to calm him down before he got into a real temper. It was especially hard for Dean, who was getting tired of it. He wished Sam could just not do it for once. "I was just trying to--"

Sam threw the container of salt down, frustrated. Dean knew he wasn't frustrated at him, but he found himself wishing Sam would just let him be a brother, rather that jumping into this whole 'You don't understand me' thing. "I know what you were trying to do, Dean," Sam said. "But it's not helping, okay? I_ don't_ want to be here, and I don't want _you_ here with me."

"You know what, Sammy?" Dean said, knowing it wasn't an insult directed at him. Sam was just saying he was still angry Dean had insisted on coming along and risking his life. But that made Dean even more pissed of, because Sam should have known he would come. He shouldn't have thought anything less of him. "I'm not going to say anything anymore because apparently I'm just making everything worse for you these days." He picked up his bag and walked to the door. "Dammit," he hissed under his breath as he opened the door. "You get the room ready. I'll unload the weapons." He tossed a dagger to Sam. "Just in case." He nodded. "How's that? Better for you? Don't worry; this is old Dean, the heartless bastard."

He slammed the door behind him.

* * *

_"Are you going to say anything?" Sam asked eventually._

_"Oh, I'm sorry," Dean said sarcastically. "I thought I was the cold-hearted bastard who doesn't give a shit. He's not very social, and he's pissed off."_

_So much for calming down._

* * *

_"Fuck," _Dean cursed angrily at the memory. He did need this right now. He didn't need another fight, not now, much less the _same_ god damned one. Sam and he had been at each other's throats the entire week. They didn't even know if they were going to be alive much longer, and they still couldn't be honest with each other. 

Dean walked along the hallway for a moment, heading to the stairs. He wiped his finger along one of the tables lining the wall. There wasn't a very thick layer of dust, so that meant the place couldn't have been abandoned long. Dean looked around, and knew what the house was. Now it was obvious.

Dean stopped at the door Sam had skipped, the one he had avoided at all costs. Dean saw the dead bolt and lock on the outside. Quickly checking to make sure Sam was still in his room, he pulled the dead bolt back. He paused for a moment, knowing there was a reason Sam didn't want him to go in there and that he should respect his brother's privacy, but it was just a room.

Still, he was nervous about what he might find on the other side. He was almost sure the demon and his followers had been the last residents of the place. There was no telling what he could find that would freak Sam out as much as it had.

He unlocked the next lock and pushed the door open. Though his expertise on horror movies told him the door would creak open, it swung smoothly on its hinges. Once more, Dean took a look down the hallway and stepped in.

It was normal. Less creepy than the room Sam had been in a minute ago, even. Though it wasn't exactly cozy, the walls weren't covered in blood. No bodies were laying anywhere or anything. The dreary, grey walls and the aging furniture showed that it probably wasn't the best place to stay, though.

It had its strange touches. It had more cracks and dents in it than the other room had. The bed looked messy but still slightly put together, like someone had been sleeping or lying in it for multiple days but had never actually pulled down the covers. One of the wooden posts on the bed looked like it had been ripped off.

A vase had been smashed into a million small pieces, but it looked like it hadn't been thrown anywhere. The window was sealed from the outside, boarded up by the looks of it, but half the glass had been blown out, shattered into as many pieces as the vase.

It looked like a normal, older bedroom, maybe a guest room that had seen better days.

Dean walked over to the closet and opened it, inspecting for further reasons for Sam's strange behavior, but found nothing at first that would explain anything but a small pile of clothes. Whoever had been here had been in a hurry, had changed clothes and dumped the old ones in there without thought. They hadn't bothered to collect them. It wasn't the manner they were left that caught Dean's attention, thought. It was the clothes themselves.

Dean recognized the jacket. He'd seen in before, and it took him a second to realize where. New adrenaline pumping through his veins, he quickly took to searching the pockets feverishly. He found what he was looking for, a wallet, and flipped it open.

Everything was missing; driver's license, money, credit cards, pictures, had all been torn from the pouches, and Dean took another survey of the area, pulling his flashlight out to take a better look at the scraps of paper he hadn't bothered to check out before.

They were pictures, or bits of what was left of pictures. They were charred around the edges, making them almost indistinguishable. A lighter lay in next to them, dented, as if whoever had used it had burned the pictures then thrown it across the space. Only one picture remained intact, and Dean recognized the two people in it immediately.

His own face smiled up at him from the black and white picture, high-school age and pulling another person unwillingly into the picture. Sam was also beaming, but was trying to push his big brother, who had then been taller than him, away from him so he could get out of the camera's reach. The older man had his arm around Sam, keeping him in place as Sam protested vehemently.

_"Come on, Dean! Stop!"_

_"Look, if I have to be in this stupid-ass yearbook, so do you."_

"This was my room," Sam's voice said from the door quietly. Dean turned quickly, surprised. Sam stood there, looking around the room and wrinkling his nose like he smelled something horrible. That had always been Sam's trademark when he really didn't like something, ever since he was three.

Sam made sure he didn't step into the room. He made sure to keep himself behind the invisible line marking the border between the two areas.

"Can I..." Sam said awkwardly, trying to avoid the silence. "Can I have my wallet back?" Dean tossed it to him wordlessly, and Sam missed it. It landed in on the floor inside the room. Dean was considering getting it for him, but Sam stepped inside on his own, crouching down to pick it up. He stayed down for a moment, picking his head up to survey the room. It was obvious he was trying to detach himself, to hide his emotions, but his face was white. Dean could tell this had been the subject of more than one of his nightmare, and all Sam wanted to do was turn and run.

This was bringing up memories, thoughts Dean didn't want his brother to think. "Don't--" he started, but Sam cut him off.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, barely audible over Dean's voice. He swallowed.

"You don't have to be scared," Dean said, and Sam shook his head, still not moving or looking Dean in the eyes.

"I'm not scared," he insisted as Dean moved closer to him, sitting down on the bed. Sam flinched.

"Don't lie to me," Dean said. "Of course you are. You don't _want _to die." Sam once more shook his head, biting his lip. "And don't worry about me. I'll be fine. During this, don't think about how I'm doing. I know what you're like. I need you to watch your own back first."

Sam smiled, truly seeing some humor for once. "I could say the same about you," he said, looking up.

Dean returned the grin. "Well," he threw back, "that's my job. I don't have to listen to _you_."

"Even though you should," Sam threw back. He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. "I'd better go finish getting the room ready."

He turned and pushed the door open.

"Wait," Dean said, and Sam turned. "How did you know I was in here?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Dude, you're like a five-year old. The more someone tells you not to do something, that's the first thing you want to do."

"Don't tell me you're not a nosy bastard, too."

"People love me for it."

"Cute, really," Dean said sarcastically. Sam turned, and once more, Dean stopped him. "You know, just in case anything happens tonight..."

Sam held a hand up. "Dude," he said, "no chick-flick moments."

"It's been nice knowing you," Dean finished anyway. Sam smiled. "And who do you think you are, me?"

"I was quoting."

"Yeah, well...don't do it again." Sam shook his head. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

**A/N: Not much to say today. About the song excerpt at the beginning, I'm probably going to be doing that throughout the rest of the story. Basically it's just a bit of a song that kind of fits the mood of the chapter I'm doing, like what I'm listening to when I'm writing it or something that has lyrics that look like they fit or just random crap. Anyway...sometimes it might just be something at the beginning, or it might be something like I'm doing next chapter where I'm using a verse to show the change in point of view throughout.**

**Oh, btw, I just think I finished a more detailed outline of the rest of the story, since everyone seems to be asking how long it's going to be. Right now, I'm saying 70 chapters. Yeah, I know, it's a lot, but that's as much as I can cut it down to so I can wrap it up before I break it into the second part.**

**Ok...REVIEW!!!! PLEASE?? -pouts- I don't do it as well as Sam, so here he is, again.**

**Sam: I still don't see why I have to do this.  
****Dean: And I don't see why I always get left out when you do this.  
****Author: Because you don't have the 'cuteness' factor Sam does.  
Dean: You know what? Screw you. I'm not going to be in your story anymore. I get my ass kicked by a girl next chapter anyway, so I don't see the point.  
Author: Dean, no!! -as he walks off- He's so damn stubborn... -stares at his butt as he walks off- But so damn hot. Sam, do the puppy dog eyes while I hunt down your brother.**

**(Corny, I know, but I was bored and felt like it)**

**Until next time...**


	59. Duality

**Chapter 59: Duality**

_Some days  
I get crazed  
I don't know why it's all relevant  
I'll take deep breaths  
and keep control, go on. _

_I've tried brave  
And you've tried to save  
I'm proud to keep it bottled up  
I think I past my prompt and lost my mind and I'm torn. _

_-Duality by Bayside _

_

* * *

_

_**"Exorcism** (from Late Latin exorcismus, from Greek exorkizein - to adjure) is the practice of evicting demons or other evil spiritual entities from a person or place of which they have possessed (taken control of). The practice is quite ancient and still part of the belief system of many religions. _

_"Exorcism has been known to cause considerable physical harm to the exorcee, particularly when it is performed by those who believe that exorcism is necessarily a violent process. Some of the most notorious recent cases are listed below." _

The page went on to list several exorcism-related deaths, most of them from movies, television shows, et cetera. It wasn't what he was looking for. He had been searching for days, months for a method that would actually work on someone like him. Not the one he and Dean had used on Meg and not one of the more classic ones used in movies that they had attempted before. This one had to be specific, and it had to work.

So much for that. He didn't even know why he was bothering. It was too late now, anyway, and he didn't have time for this. Yet he found his need even more frantic now that he was running out of time. The poison was running through his veins, now working more than ever, clouding his head, and his other side was anxious. It was stronger, and Sam needed more than ever for it to be gone.

His stomach was in knots and his heart was pumping so hard and fast that his vision was blurred. He found he couldn't even focus on the page anymore. He closed out the window, finally declaring defeat, and let his head fall forward into his hands. Deep breaths, he had to keep reminding himself. He had to have as clear of a head as possible. He couldn't afford to be sick or going crazy. It wasn't acceptable.

He was losing control. That had been a fact that he had been trying to hide, to deny, for too long. It was too late, though. The fear and anticipation and stress he was going through (not to mention the fact that he and Dean had been at each other's throats the entire week while it had been the most crucial point for him not to get mad) was instinctively changing itself into adrenaline. His body had been trained to use any such glimmer of emotion to his advantage. Even emotion could be used to make him cold, to make his shell. He could barely remember how he had used it any other way anymore.

Sam tried to clear his head once more by trying another search. His fingers stopped typing suddenly in the middle of the term he had been entering into the search box, as if his body was objecting. As if another force was stopping him, telling him to take a break.

His fingers were shaking above the keys, now, but not with nerves anymore. He was jumpy, and some part of him wanted the demon and his followers to come faster all of a sudden. He had wanted this fight for awhile, he realized suddenly. It was his chance to finally show them what he could do. They wouldn't treat him like a little kid after this.

He knew those thoughts, those alien feelings that weren't his. He recalled the last time he had felt them, in that very house, right before he stepped over the line, when he had nothing to pull him back. Everything snapped into perspective for a terrifying second before his other instincts made him forget it. He saw himself for what he truly was, for _where_ he truly was. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to leap into the darkness. He saw the door from his dream, and Dean's betrayed look.

It was coming time for the decision, and coming soon. He didn't know if it was his psychic side showing through, but he _knew_ it. He knew it was finally coming to his time to make up his mind. He wouldn't be able to walk the line anymore. He had to choose a side, and choose for good. Months ago, years ago, it would have been a no-brainer on his part, but he didn't know anymore. He didn't know how much longer he could fight this. Maybe it was destiny coming into focus. Not everyone's destiny had a happy ending, after all. Maybe he was one of those who were meant to live short, unhappy lives.

He was who he was, and he could never change that. He wanted violence, he wanted blood. He wanted them to suffer, to see the fear in their eyes.

"Stop," he muttered to himself. "Stop it."

There was no question this had been going on for a long time. He had been noticing the changes in himself, and he knew Dean saw it, too. The need was returning. He not only wanted all those horrible things, he _needed_ them. He needed to feel like something, like somebody again. He couldn't feel like a helpless little child anymore. He needed power.

Sam knew it was wrong to think it; every bit of him told him so. But no matter what, his other side was making it harder to resist. The choice was becoming clearer, and he kept waiting for it, dreading it but needing it at the same time. It was a physical need for power, like a hunger or an addiction, and he had waited too long.

Then he caught his reflection, and then he knew he should be scared once more. His hair had been darkening by the day, now a dark brown so deep it was a shade away from black, and at the roots it was as dark as it got. His eyes were similar in shade, a ring of dark black seeping from his irises, and Sam found it strangely symbolic. He had been told countless times the eyes were a window into the soul.

It fit. His eyes showed exactly what was happening, the darkness eating its way from the inside out. It was just finally reaching the surface, declaring war. Sam was open for either side to take over, waiting to be pushed in either direction, and it was the strangest feeling he had ever had. He had never felt so sensitive in his life, so vulnerable.

There was no going back after this. No regrets. He was risking everything standing his ground to fight. He was giving himself the opportunity to truly become what he had been afraid of. Maybe it wasn't too late to back out.

And die? The thought suddenly came into his head, self-loathing and scathing, and he felt a wave of disgust that had come out of nowhere. He pushed the feeling away in reflex.

He didn't want to die, and no matter what he said to the contrary, that would never change. He was a coward. He'd do anything to save his own neck, yet he still insisted on pretending to be a hero.

Sam rolled his eyes. Those thoughts had been coming into his head more and more often over the last week. He went back to his research, ignoring the dull throbbing in the back of his head and his fever, which he was sure was up to a dangerous point. If he didn't bring it down within the next hour at most it was over. Somehow, he found he didn't care anymore.

He needed help, he grudgingly admitted to himself, and he could feel the offer his other side was giving him. He could help. He didn't want either of them to die, not yet at least. Sam knew it might be his best bet, knowing in that state he stood a better chance, and found it tempting.

No. That wasn't him thinking that.

Wasn't it what he had wanted the whole time? He'd needed it for much longer than he'd realized, and he was tired of fighting. What was the point of trying?

"Stop it," he said, out loud this time.

It was his destiny.

Sam slammed his laptop closed in frustration, wondering how he could have managed to not break it in half with the force he had exerted. It quieted the other voice, the temptation, but that tiny bit of venting wasn't enough.

"Fuck destiny," he muttered, breathing hard and feeling drained.

Something clicked inside him, and suddenly everything snapped into focus, like he was looking through someone else's eyes that could see better and hearing through someone else's ears that was a better listener than him. He didn't realize what had set him off until he heard it again. The creak of the floorboards and the door, made by someone who was good at being stealthy. Not as good as he had been, though.

Looking out through his eyes, he had the suspicion that he wasn't the only one, a feeling he had been unfamiliar with for months, and found it strangely comforting. That was, for once he couldn't concentrate on fighting himself. All his focus was on his visitor as he picked his laptop up, for once not caring about the specific motions in fighting his father had taught him. It was all about instincts.

Ignoring the salt line that was meant to keep him safe, he crossed it without hesitation, something he knew he hadn't been able to do, even when he had been one of them. With one solid stroke, he slammed the laptop into his visitor's face with as much strength as he could muster. While the man, whom Sam recognized as James, stumbled backwards, clutching his nose where blood spurted out, Sam yanked the power cord for the laptop out of the wall and solidly wrapped them around each of his hands.

His motions felt like those in a dream, his body moving on its own, faster and more forceful that ever. He pushed James to the ground, the power cord across his throat, cutting off the oxygen.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Sam hissed.

James laughed, satisfied, and then coughed as Sam angrily squeezed even harder. His knee made contact with Sam's stomach, and then Sam was shoved to the side as James threw the cord away, advancing on Sam. It was then that the youngest Winchester realized he didn't have any serious weapons other that the knife. Dean was supposed to take care of everything else.

A hard kick to the shin stunned James long enough for Sam to get to his feet, evening the playing field. James simply glared daggers at Sam, but Sam didn't have time for waiting. He kicked out at the older man, who dodged easily before dropping to the ground, pulling Sam down once more.

His knife went clattering off to the corner of the room uselessly and Sam went scrambling after on his hands and knees, pulling the fight out of the hallway and into the room, the salt line officially ruined by the scuffle, but a solid grip around his ankle stopped him in his tracks. He began to feel himself being pulled back, and he kicked out at James. When that didn't turn out so well, he reached out for the leg of the small end table desperately, tipping it over in hopes that there would be something useful on it.

It was almost too late. James had now gotten a hold of his own knife and was pulling the violently struggling Sam towards him, even grabbing a large chunk of Sam's hair to pull him back. Sam felt around blindly, desperately, while still trying to break free, and his hand met something solid.

A picture frame. Good enough for him. He jabbed it into James' stomach as hard as he could, the tip punching him right in the gut hard enough to stun him and for Sam to grab his wrist and slam it against the floor a few times. James' grip didn't release the knife, and instead James turned it around and plunged it into Sam's upper arm.

Sam gasped in pain, feeling the almost burning sensation as he pulled it out, and that was enough distraction for James, who pushed Sam to the ground, fingers clasped tightly around his throat.

* * *

Dean hadn't been expecting them to get there so soon, and he had definitely not been expecting that he'd end up fighting a girl. Not that he had ever had problems fighting back against girls; that evidence had been displayed with Meg and Nora. Still, he didn't think it was fair. 

She had snuck up on him when it was still quiet in the house. Sam must have been protected within the salt ring if he had finished in time. Either that or they hadn't reached him yet.

The girl, whom he recognized as Rachel, the girl in the alley when they had tried to kidnap Sam, struck at him from behind with surprising strength for someone so short. It must have been the butt of a gun that hit him in the back of the head. He lost his balance and fell forward, his world tipping. He could feel the skin break with the force of the blow, warm blood soaking into his hair. It was a miracle, but he didn't lose consciousness, though he suddenly had an intense incentive to fall down and let the blackness overtake him.

His vision blurred and his limbs didn't seem to ant to move like he wanted them to. He barely had the strength to fight back as a cloth was placed over his nose and mouth. His hands clawed at Rachel's arms, trying to pull her away, but to no avail. He soon became lightheaded from trying not to take a deep breath.

He gave up trying to pry her away from him, and reached into his pocket, unscrewing the cap of the tiny bottle. Dean threw the liquid blindly at Rachel, white spots appearing in his vision, and it hit its mark. She released him immediately, trying to recover from the holy water inflicted burns on her torso.

Dean took the opportunity to shove an elbow into her nose, satisfied when he saw the blood.

Rachel wasn't ready to give up, though. Still reeling from the pain, she grabbed Dean by the jacket and shoved him at the wall. He hit the end table, his head colliding with the picture frame with a clatter, and had to struggle to keep on his feet as she punched him solidly.

When she prepared for the next kick, he dodged to the side, stumbling in the process. While she tried to regain her footing, he grabbed a bunch of her hair and flung her away from him, out towards the door where he could have more room for a fight. He needed to get out of this small space.

His progress towards her was momentarily halted when something metallic came swinging at him, and he ducked from the blade, having no doubt she wouldn't regret killing him. Still on the ground, he slammed the door right into her face, knocking her backward into the hallway, stunned, as Dean stood, working through the dizziness that was now threatening to overtake him.

When Dean pulled back his arm for a punch, Rachel kicked out, balancing her upper body on the railing to put all her weight into it. Dean slammed into the wall, and she sliced through the air with her knife. Dean had to drop to his hands and knees to avoid getting his throat sliced.

"You know," Rachel said to him, taking advantage of his winded state to kick him n the face with one boot, "a body will do just as good as a hostage. We'd prefer you alive, but you're just not as important as your brother is."

"Bite me," Dean snarled through the blood now trickling out of his nose and into his mouth, leaving a coppery taste in his mouth. Rachel pulled him to his feet with inhuman strength.

Dean felt his head collide with something solid, shattering it and drawing even more blood. Rachel let her hold go and he slumped to the floor, his head spinning too wildly for him to even be able to think straight. There were too many of everything.

* * *

_Some say  
It's all fate  
but I say we control our lives  
and if my destiny should out best me then that's fine.  
I made believe thrill and apathy don't exist in me fairly equally  
but truth is after all I got, call mine._

Sam heard a shattering sound from near the stairwell outside the room, along with the thud of someone hitting the ground, but he didn't have time to worry about anything other than his current situation. Dean was right; he couldn't help anyone if he was dead.

He still lay on his back, dazed, as James' hand wrapped around his throat, not enough to cut off airflow all that badly, but enough to hold his upper body in place. Sam's muscles strained in resistance, but James had the advantage.

Sam saw the older man pull something out of his pocket, something that definitely looked like a syringe, if a very small one. It was filled with a liquid he had never seen before, so he could be sure it wasn't anything they'd used on him before.

Still, it couldn't be good, he concluded, and struggled even harder as James brought the needle closer to his skin.

"Relax," James said, annoyed, but with a joking undertone like they were old friends. "It's the antidote to the poison we gave you. We're surprised you lasted this long." Sam tried to push him off again, but James responded by increasing the pressure on Sam's neck, practically to the point of choking him. "What, so you _want _to die now?"

Sam knew the truth. Along with the antidote would be a sedative most likely, one that would knock him out cold for a very long time, and knock him out enough so that they wouldn't have to worry about escape attempts of any type. It was a death wish to take it, a death wish not to.

Sam reached for the knife once more, the tips of his fingers managing to pull it closer to him. Slowly but surely Sam managed to wrap his fingers around it, ignoring the pain that flared up in his arm as he did.

"Not so fast," James said, prying the blade from Sam's already unsteady grip. But as he looked the other way, he let go of Sam's other arm. He took the opportunity to slam his fist into James' nose. The man stumbled as Sam punched him once more.

He hauled James to his feet by the collar and slammed him into the wall next to the door in anger. At that moment, Sam wanted nothing more in the world than to kill him, to put him through as much as he had gone through himself. Looking into the cold eyes of this man, something snapped inside of him once more, and he didn't have to look in the mirror to see what was happening to him. James' smile said it all.

His lips curling into a furious sneer, Sam slammed him into the wall again as hard as he could.

_No telling what tomorrow holds.  
No telling what voice takes control. _

_

* * *

_

Dean felt his breath choke in his throat, and all he could manage was a startled gasp when he hit the wall again. He saw a glint of something silvery out of the corner of his eyes, and then felt the cold metal pressed against the skin of his throat.

A sharp pain came briefly and then he felt the trickle of warm blood fall down to his chest. The stinging sensation continued all the way across.

"I guess a body it is," Rachel hissed, taking a pause to smile wickedly at Dean. He tried to pretend like he was looking at her and paying attention as he reached out blindly. "Poor little Sammy, though," she continued, and then shrugged.

The blade dug deeper, but Dean knew he had some time. Maybe a few seconds, but time. She wouldn't kill him fast.

The pain became worse. His vision was going black, and even his fingers reaching out against the surface of the table didn't seem to be sending signals to his brain all that well. He needed to find something soon or he was dead.

_Come on, _he prayed silently. Even the pain was starting to go away. His head felt strangely clear of thought, but his instincts told him to keep trying. He had to defend himself for Sam. Sam needed him. He couldn't die. He couldn't do that to his little brother.

His fingers touched something. He had no idea what, but it was solid, and that was good enough for him. He smashed it unhesitantly over Rachel's head. She fell, and Dean slumped against the wall for a second, his hand reflexively going to his neck as he gulped for air like he had been submerged in water.

He made a run for it down the stairs. He could see Sam, and he was handling himself much better than Dean was. In fact, by the looks of it he was kicking the guy's ass. There was no visible blood on him except for something on his upper arm, though his face was flushed and he looked out of breath and furious. In comparison, Dean must have looked horrible, bleeding like crazy, but that didn't slow him down.

His gun wouldn't do any good for the long term, nor would his knife. He needed a more permanent solution, one that would send a clear message to the demon.

Dean was stopped halfway down the first flight by Rachel as she made a wild attempt to tackle him that sent them both falling down the stairs. They both sat there, dazed for a moment before Rachel made a dizzy attempt to punch him. He grabbed her arm and slammed her against the wall opposite the railing. His hands clasped firmly around her wrists, and for a moment he thought he had her. The only problem was that he had underestimated her strength and his weakness.

One second he was standing there, the next second he was falling through the air, having been pushed over the side of the railing. He landed with an incredibly painful _thud _on the table, which gave way under the force of his fall.

Rachel leapt over the balcony, skipping the stairs altogether, and landed with catlike grace in front of him. She smiled, twirling her bloodstained knife by her side menacingly.

* * *

_And you're the flame that burns me so I know that I'm still alive._

Dean looked like crap, bleeding from at least five different places. Sam was amazed how even then, bloody and about to pass out, he could still look as determined and threatening as ever. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew he should help, but that was blotted out by bigger thoughts. The rage was too much.

Sam threw another punch, but James ducked and grabbed Sam's upper arm, twisting it and slamming Sam to the floor. Sam kicked James' legs out from underneath him with a faster speed than he had used before. His movements made more sense now, and he was able to make them more precise, quicker and deadlier.

His hand snapped out at James, his fingers wrapping around the gun he had concealed, and aimed it.

"Don't move," Sam warned, his voice venomous. James merely laughed at Sam's cold expression.

"Well, welcome back, Winchester," he said, and Sam pulled the trigger. The bullet imbedded itself in James' shoulder, just as he had aimed for it to. He didn't want to kill him, just to hurt him.

"That was payback for the knife you put in my arm," he said, and James laughed once more. "There's a lot more I want for this." He shook his sleeve to show the scar on his arm.

"I didn't do that," James responded calmly.

"You all did it," Sam threw back. "You_ all_ did this to me." It wasn't just a scar, and James knew it. He had one, too, from long ago when he had first joined.

"You can only get it if you're willing, and you know that, Sammy," James said in a cold voice, grinning when he saw Sam didn't like the nickname. "You joined us of your own free will."

"Free will?" Sam hissed in one of the deadliest voices he had used. "You say what I did was of my own_ free will_?"

"You chose a lifetime of service over death."

"No," Sam spat. "I chose death. You just wouldn't accept that."

"Fair enough," he responded. "But you're probably going to want payback for this, too."

James lunged out at Sam, catching him mildly off guard, holding the younger man's wrists in a strong grip and attempting to pin him. The gun went flying off a few feet away. Sam resisted James' pushing, and twisted around, sending him crashing painfully into the banister. James didn't loosen his grip, though, and Sam shoved him again in frustration.

With lightning speed, James let his grip go and reached into Sam's pocket, puling out the bottle of holy water. It was too late when Sam realized what was going on.

The liquid felt like it was boiling hot, though he knew otherwise. It had hit his upper torso and felt like it was burning away his very flesh. The pain was so intense he stopped struggling, and that was his problem. James shoved him to the ground, pinning him on his back, and when Sam tried calling out, he felt a piece of fabric shoved roughly into his mouth.

"You try calling for your brother again..." James trailed off threateningly as Sam gagged when he tried and failed to spit out the cloth. His arm lashed out at James but it did no good. His chest was still burning and he found himself biting down of the gag just to get through the pain.

Instinctively he surveyed the area and saw the knife to his left, the gun to his right. The gun had fallen halfway down the stairs and the knife was only three feet away. He had to go for it, and threw himself sideways, breaking free somewhat of James' grasp momentarily before the man shoved him down once more. He stretched his arm out as far as it would go. He kicked out, but his legs were pinned down. His fingers were inches from the handle of the blade, but he wasn't close enough to grasp it.

"No!" someone yelled from the first level and there was a thudding sound. Sam and James both turned at the sound, thrown off guard, and by the time James recovered, Sam had grabbed the knife, and without hesitation whipped it around. The knife slashed through the flesh of James' throat immediately as he attempted to pin Sam once more. James sputtered, gasping for air for a moment like a fish out of water before he fell forward, his body slack. Though he wasn't dead, it would take a demon like him a considerable amount of time to heal over such a wound.

The blood began to flow out of the gash evenly, seeping over Sam's hands and staining them red., and only when Sam saw how much blood there was did he realize what he had done. He had given in. He had wanted blood and he had gotten it.

Nauseated and gagging at the sight of the exposed throat, Sam pulled the gag from his mouth with his bloody hands. Sam shoved James off of him, his stomach churning with disgust at what he had done. His hands shook for a few seconds before some impulse in his brain took over and smothered what outlets the fear had. Some part of him knew this wasn't over, and knew he needed to be alert. He pushed himself to his feet, his balance back to normal.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, coming into view. "Move!" He gestured up the stairs, and Sam didn't hesitate. Dean's expression was too panicked for him not to actually seriously mean it.

Dean stumbled over the top few stairs and dropped just as the gunshot rang out. It hit right where his head would have been.

"Dammit, I thought she was out cold!" Dean muttered angrily. "Let me guess," he continued as Sam pulled him to his feet, aiming his own gun that he had recovered and firing back. "She's the crazy one of the group?"

Sam nodded, pulling Dean along. Though his brother was about to collapse, he knew where he was going and knew he needed to haul ass.

"Come on!" Dean said anxiously, yanking open the door of Sam's room urgently. "Run!"

"Why?" Sam asked. Dean shoved him into the room in response and shut the door behind him, locking it. He then pulled a table in front of it for extra protection as a pounding noise came from the other side. "What happened to standing our ground and fighting?" Dean shot a suspicious glance at Sam's bloodstained clothes but didn't comment, not caring enough.

"Trust me," he said. "We are."

It was then that he realized what Dean had said earlier, about having to run. He had known it was familiar, from his vision. He had thought it was his voice, but it had been Dean instead. He couldn't help but remember what happened after that. Then he smelled it.

"Gasoline?!" he yelled. "You cut the fucking gas line?"

Dean nodded, already at the window. "How high up are we?" he asked.

"Please tell me you didn't light anything on fire!" Dean didn't answer. He preoccupied himself instead with trying to kick the boards on the window out. Sam knew it wouldn't work; it had never worked for him no matter how hard or long he tried.

"It's okay," Sam tried to reassure himself. "There would have to be a lot of gas to make any decent explosion."

"Oh, there's enough," Dean said.

"But it would have blown up by now."

"Not...exactly," Dean responded in between blows. "Dad taught me how to give us a decent amount of time."

"Dad taught you how to do this?" Sam asked. "He taught you how to blow up a fucking house with you still in it? What did he call it, Suicide 101?"

"Not...helping," Dean said with clenched teeth.

"Well_ you_ weren't exactly helping when you lit the fire!"

"Shut up! I figure we have three minutes before it blows."

"We had three minutes when you lit the fire or we still have three minutes?" That made Dean stop, giving Sam the 'what the hell are you on?' look. "This is bad!"

"I know!" Dean threw back. "You don't have to tell me twice! Now listen," he continued, trying to calm them both down as he took another shot at opening the window. "I set it...on the other end of the house." Sam nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief that Dean would go this far. "It probably won't even reach us."

"Oh, right!" Sam said angrily. "But there's also a really good chance we'll get blown up in a few seconds, am I right?" Dean nodded, giving him that.

"I don't see you helping."

"Even if we don't get blown up, the fire could kill us, or we could get hit by debris."

"Once more,_ not helping_."

"You didn't think!" Sam yelled.

"I know!" Dean roared, frustrated, and Sam gritted his teeth.

"Move," he said, shoving Dean out of the way.

Sam furrowed his brow, knowing he didn't have time. He tried to think back to when he had known Max, when he had been stuck in the closet, trying to get out to save Dean's life. It had been a matter of adrenaline. He had plenty of that; he just needed to use it to his advantage.

"Come on," he muttered, feeling the tension build inside of him as he felt the moment of truth draw closer.

"Sam," Dean said nervously. They didn't have time. There was a fifty percent chance they would get killed if they were prepared, one hundred percent if they weren't, if they kept standing there like they were.

"Shut up," Sam hissed. He had it, he knew it.

"Sam," Dean said more insistently, and Sam gave up. He heard it before Dean did, he was sure. Though he couldn't crack the glass or break the window open, all of his senses were in overdrive, and when he looked into Dean's eyes, something scared his brother. It wasn't the explosion coming; it was Sam himself.

There wasn't time for that. Sam heard the crack downstairs as the bigger flame ignited. Then the louder boom came, and Dean noticed. Sam shoved his brother to the ground and dropped down after him. Somehow, Sam knew he had a better chance of surviving than Dean, so he kept Dean's head down, pulling his own down and using his own body as a shield, making them both as small of a target as possible.

Sam closed his eyes and covered his ears, as did Dean, but that didn't block out the giant blast that that shattered through his very skull. It was deafening, and he could sense Dean cringing as well. The ground shook beneath them, and Sam suddenly had a new fear; if they survived the blast, the roof or floor was sure to collapse.

Then the fire reached them. The heat was intense, and Sam didn't dare to open his eyes for fear of being blinded. It was in that instant that he realized they were going to die. There was no way anyone could possibly survive this, no way.

The fire scorched its way through, the wall shaking in resistance. The door burst and a shock wave reached them, throwing them both into the wall with breathtaking force. Next were the flames, and Sam lowered his head further, burying his face in Dean's jacket to keep it from being burned off.

He felt the flames. They barreled in all around Sam and Dean, over them, everywhere. It was only a matter of time before it consumed them. Sam felt the burn in his exposed arm where he had rolled the sleeve of his jacket up, and pulled it in as fast as he could, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and the most he could do was grit his teeth and hope that was the worst thing that happened to either of them.

It was there, in the midst of the explosion, bits of glass and wood pummeling by him, the fire burning angrily around his body, that his mind began to go fuzzy. The world went black, and he was almost sure he was dying. He had to be.

* * *

_Images passed before his eyes at top speed: his mother's grave, Jess' grave, Max's grave, and all the others that went with them. He saw his father, wearing a suit for once in his life, talking to another hunter, also dressed formally, who patted his shoulder comfortingly. John didn't look like he cared. He saw Missouri's face next to John, somber and sorrowful. She dropped her head, closing her eyes. Then the scene went darker, changed, and Sam saw Dean. His heart stopped._

_There was so much blood; more blood than he ever would have thought could have come out of a wound. _

_"No," came the whisper, the denial, but it was true. The light was gone in Dean's once bright eyes. Like a candle had been extinguished. His eyes were open, cold, empty, lifeless. _

_Dead. _

_Dean. No. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was never supposed to happen, ever. He had never seen anything worse in his entire life, never felt as horrified as he was when he saw Dean's face in that moment. _

_Then he spotted John. He had just gotten there, it seemed, and his mouth was parted slightly in shock. _

_"Dean..." he breathed, dropping to his knees next to the body of his son. Sirens wailed in the distance, but it was too late. _

_Both brothers were covered in blood, hurt badly, but it had only been fatal to one of them. There were no tears in sight on either of the faces; none had been shed. The grief was worse than that. _

_"He's gone." _

_

* * *

_

_If what you say is really wrong.  
I'm not in control, things are out of control._

The blast brought him back with a huge gasp of air, his head spinning. The first sense that came back to him, and whatever he smelled seemed like singed hair, which wouldn't be surprising.

"Sam," Dean yelled over the flames, and it was then that Sam realized the explosion was over; they had survived it. But they had a whole new slew of problems now. Though the main part had finished, there was still quite an after-effect. There were still other flames.

Everywhere.

"Sam," Dean repeated as the youngest Winchester dodged his way away from the burning bed, which was sending burning bits of wood everywhere, including on his jacket, which he had to remove before it set him on fire.

Dean coughed, doubling over for a split second, and Sam motioned for him to get down. "There's more fresh air there." Dean crouched, and motioned for Sam to follow him. "We have to get out of here," he called over the roar, barely getting through his sentence before dissolving into another fit of sputtering. This wasn't good. Sam himself was getting lightheaded from the fumes, but Dean's condition might be more serious.

"Dean," Sam said, getting his attention, and Dean locked eyes with him. "Do you trust me?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and Sam pushed him down as another flame flared up, and Sam crawled on his hands and knees to a safer position. To do that, though, he was farther away from Dean, and closer to the window where he needed to be. He motioned for Dean to follow him as he pulled himself up far enough to examine the window.

"Your plan was to climb down the side of the building?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"That's not going to work out so well, considering we're lucky there's even a floor left." As he said that, there was an ominous creak from below, and Sam knew they were on borrowed time. "Duck," he commanded, and Dean did what he said.

He didn't know how he did it then when he had been unable to do it before. Maybe it was in the light of his vision, or maybe it was his other side coming out, but the glass and wood shattered effortlessly when he threw out his hand. It was as easy as breathing.

He wasn't in control anymore. He couldn't afford to be right then, and his other side couldn't afford to fight Sam. They would both die if they didn't both give up, and for once Sam was ok with letting it help him.

Sam inched closer to the window, pulling himself up to look out the hole that he had blown in it, big enough for a person to crawl through. He briefly shuddered at the rapid temperature change the freezing air provided him. He stuck his head out and gazed down at the rushing river below him. Good. They were on the side of the house overlooking it.

"Once more," he began, turning back to a startled Dean. "I'm asking you: Do you trust me?"

Dean's eyes were wide, and he could see the black in Sam's. He was wondering whether or not he could trust this new Sam, hesitating. That wasn't something Sam could afford. Dean needed to get over it or die.

"Please," he said, and Dean nodded silently. Sam smiled and pulled himself into the window-frame.

"Whoa," Dean said, grabbing Sam's arm. "I thought we couldn't climb down." He peered out and saw only the river, probably freezing cold.

"We can't," Sam answered, grinning. He could quickly feel the stinging that meant his eyes were turning blacker.

_This is going to be fun._ Then he snapped back again, like he had so many times that night. He glanced down, and he knew this was his chance. If he didn't do it, he would die, and this could give him more time. If he could just clear his head, maybe he could make it a bit longer with the poison in his system. Of course, the shock could also kill him or Dean, but it wasn't like he had a choice.

Without hesitation, Sam jumped. He knew that if Dean really did trust him totally, completely, he would follow. If he truly believed he could put his life into his brother's hands, Sam knew he would do it.

Dean jumped in after Sam without hesitation.

**Author's Note: REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Pretty please...:( Sam has refused to come out to do the puppy dog eyes this week, so I can't use that leverage. He's decided to take Dean's side in being mad at me. Anyway...hope you liked the chapter.**

**Up Next: As the Winchester brothers fight for their life, they face one of their biggest challenges yet. Drowning, near-hypothermia, concussions, poison, 911 calls, goodbyes, and an appearance at the end from Papa Winchester himself. Yes, he'll be coming back for a few chapters. There's one more side plot I'm working on with him that I just thought of (and no, I swear I did not mean to steal completely from Heroes if that's what it seems like when you read it) and I'm still undecided as to where I'm going to put it in or if I am at all. If I put it in, it'll be about 3 or 4 more chapters, or in the sequel (oooo, believe it or not I just thought of that idea -Is a dork-) It's going to involve a flashback to a time when Sam and Dean were in high school, and I swear it is relevant to the plot. So I might have to have this be 71 chapters, but I'm thinking of taking out another chapter...**

**See why I can never tell you guys how long this is going to be? I can't even make an_ outline_ and stick with it. Ugh! **

**Until next time...**


	60. Harder to Breathe

**Chapter 60: Harder to Breathe**

**A/N: Both songs used in this chapter might be used in future chapters, as well. They're kind of general mood-setters for what's coming up. (As are Calling All Cars by Senses Fail and You Know My Name by Chris Cornell, two songs I'm using within the next ten ending chapters. If you look at the lyrics, I'm not sure if that gives away anything that might be coming up, but the bridge of the first song is what I mean about using it later.) **

**Oh, by the way, I've now hit 60 chapters!!!!! Yay! Never thought I would get this far in this story, trust me.**

_When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love  
You'll understand what I mean when I say  
There's no way we're gonna give up  
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams  
Is there anyone out there? 'Cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe  
Is there anyone out there? 'Cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe_

_-Harder to Breathe by Maroon 5_

Sam had a brief sense of falling through the air at a high speed, and then he hit the water at full force and everything slowed. The crackling and crunching of the burning house he had just jumped from was silenced, the memory wiped away as if it had never been there in the first place.

If he had been cold before, it was nothing compared to this. The water was nothing short of freezing, in the state that was a single step away from becoming solid ice. His entire body shuddered once, and then came a sort of numbness, and then a sense that he was floating.

If he had thought this would clear his head, would make him feel better and shock him into awareness enough to hold off the inevitable for another amount of time, he was wrong. Instead of clearing his head, it wiped it out. Sam couldn't focus on anything, couldn't even tell his surroundings or what was up and down.

As for improving his health, that had been a bad assumption. His body wasn't responding as well as usual, and logic told him he was lucky that the shock hadn't killed him in his weakened state. The cold also wouldn't help him in the long run. If anything, the choice to jump might have killed him faster.

Occasionally, he felt himself brush against something, or collided more violently and painfully with it, but he couldn't fight the current around him. He couldn't get his bearing. The water was rushing and he was probably being taken farther and farther into the middle of nowhere by the river, but he couldn't think. He couldn't see. He couldn't move. Couldn't swim.

Couldn't breathe.

Sam had no idea how long this half-struggling went on, or how long he was under the water, deprived of oxygen and the ability to fight, whether it was seconds, or minutes, or hours. The entire concept of time was washed away with his other concerns.

When his head broke the surface of the water, everything snapped back with a vengence. The cold existed again, as did the need to breathe. As did the panic. He took great gulps of air, shuddering with every movement, feeling frozen to the core. He didn't think he had ever been this cold in his entire life.

He wasn't moving as fast anymore. The river had wound down, slowed to a more manageable speed, and Sam worked his way over to the bank with what little strength he had left. He pulled himself up and lay there, face down, for a moment before turning over. He stayed that way, heart beating way too fast and breathing heavily, staring up at the sky and trying to stop the incessant buzz of something in the back of his head. He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to think. All he wanted to do was lie there the entire night, never having to worry about anything but the rhythm of his breathing.

Even out of the ice-water, he was as cold as ever. His drenched clothes clung to his body, and his hair fell into his eyes, dripping into his face. He pushed himself to a sitting position grudgingly, knowing it wouldn't be good if he stayed there for too long. The spinning in his head promised not to stop any time soon. His chest was on fire, whether from the sickness or just worn out from the labor of taking too many deep breaths.

When Sam stood, he almost fell right back down again, and stumbled straight into a tree, supporting himself shakily against the trunk. His legs felt like they had been turned to jelly, giving way under his weight, but he tried again, and managed to balance himself reasonably well without having to lean on anything.

And the voice in the back of his head broke through, the buried urgency suddenly making sense. It reminded him of what he should really have been concerned about, but he had been too out of it to realize, and he only barely got it then. That was about the same time he saw the motionless figure a few yards away.

The path over the roots and mud of the river bank wouldn't have normally been so treacherous, but Sam was panicking, and his disorientation and near-hypothermia probably wasn't helping, either. His sneakers slopped in the mud, slipping out from underneath him more than once, but he pulled hismelf up every time. He needed to move. It didn't matter that he was cold and drenched and bleeding if his brother needed him.

Dean's face was white when Sam dropped to his knees next to his brother, most likely as white as Sam's was. His eyes were closed, blood caked on his forehead, neck, and back of his head, as well as his arms and other limbs. Sam scrambled for a few heart-stopping moments to check his pulse. He had one, but his state of breathing wasn't as good.

"Shit," Sam hissed, his sluggish brain spinning to remember how to do CPR. John had taught both of his sons and they had both learned it in high school, but the only experience he had with it was on the other end. "Here goes nothing," he said grudgingly, and pinched Dean's nose closed, but that was at about the same time as the oldest Winchester brother started to cough violently.

Dean gagged dryly for a few moments, and then the water started to come up. Sam pulled him up so he could gag the rest of it up to the side without worrying about choking on the liquid. He went for a good amount of time, getting up most of water he must have taken in. Once he was done, his breathing as ragged as Sam's had been if not worse, he fell back on his younger brother, taking him by surprise and knocking a good amount of the air out of his lungs.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said as he saw Dean's eyes start to close again. Sam took note of the blood still seeping its way through Dean's already-drenched hair. He had no major visible burns, unlike Sam and his arm, as Sam had taken most of the force. All the same, Sam told himself he would have to save any further diagnosis for later. They both needed to get to a better location where they both could recover. Well, where Dean could recover. That was all he knew.

"Come on," he repeated to his brother, who seemed stuck in a dazed, half-conscious state. Judging by the head injury he had sustained, Sam was amazed Dean had lasted that long. "We have to go."

Dean nodded weakly, pushing himself up and preparing to stand. When he did, he fell in a similar fashion that Sam had, only worse. He fell into his little brother once more, and Sam had to wrap an arm around his waist and help him up. He was tired hismelf, and barely had the strength to stand on his own, but he wasn't ready to complain. Not after all Dean had gone through for him over the years. He owed Dean a lot more than this. So he kept a firm hand around Dean's waist and let him lean to his body for support.

He started to walk forward, and Dean moved beside him, if slowly, embarrassed even in his current, half-conscious state. "Sorry," he muttered.

"No problem," Sam said. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid idea."

"It saved...both our asses," Dean said, in an almost whisper in between gasps of air.

"It was stupid, all the same," Sam insisted.

"Whatever you say," Dean replied, with a slight smile as he did his best to keep pace. His feet dragged, and Sam had to constantly pause so he could keep his hold. He followed the river, heading to where he saw the smoke. It was apparent over the treetops. "Why're we going back?"

"We have to get the car and get to a hotel," Sam replied patiently, grunting as Dean tripped and almost sent them both down. "Come on, I just need you to hold it together for a few more minutes."

* * *

The car was exactly where they left it, exactly how they left it. So was the house. Even half-asleep, Dean had to gaze in wonder at the difference in the entire area. 

He would only much later remember that scene, having been too disoriented. Even then, he had no idea what he had been looking for in his memories, but he knew it had to be important. He had to remember, though. Whatever it was, he had always known he had to remember that moment, for it had been one of the defining moments of his life, whether conscious or not. It was one of those memories that were always there, whether you knew it or not.

The house was still ablaze, almost surreal in the enormity of the flames, and Dean shuddered, remembering the night his mom died. He hoped Sam just thought he was cold. Broken panes of glass had been scattered through the yard, flames licking their way out to the open, as if the house could no longer contain whatever animal was inside. Even the walls looked expanded in effort of keeping together the old house, like it was resisting being destroyed with everything it had, even now. Like it wouldn't surrender what it held for them.

The magical quality of the clearing was gone. It was as if the spell was broken, and he could suddenly hear the animals in the woods scampering around frantically, in danger of losing their homes that had probably never been in danger before then in the perfection of the clearing. The little snow that had fallen had melted and turned the perfect lawn into a muddy mess. The river itself seemed to be angrier, as if it was frustrated from being held back so long. It didn't want to be picturesque anymore.

But that wasn't what he remembered. That wasn't what was important to him. In fact, all those other things washed away within weeks. But what he saw on Sam's face that time was something he knew, even then, he could never forget for long.

Sam and Dean simply stood and watched for about a minute, taking it in, and Dean chanced a look at Sam's face. His expression was deliberately blank, but Dean could see everything else shining through. Relief, anger, gratitude, wonder, disbelief.

Hope.

This had been where it had all started for Sam, where his nightmare had been born. Where he had been taken away to after being kidnapped by the very people he depised the most, who made him remember how he was never going to see his family again. Where he had been trapped inside his own head, nearly killed. Where he had tried to end his own life. Where everything bad that had ever happened to him stemmed from.

And there he stood, watching it burn to the ground. Destroyed forever. The memories it held burnt with it, the fumes all around them, but instead of bringing the terror they usually did, Sam's eyes were wide, sparkling in the light of the flames. There, sick and cold and dying, he had looked more alive than Dean had ever seen him in the past months. It was like some part of him, some barrier he had put around himself, had just been torn down in front of his very eyes. It was like he suddenly had freedom to feel what he wanted.

He didn't smile, or laugh, or jump for joy, just as Dean knew he wouldn't; he didn't do anything. He didn't say anything, but his silence was more eloquent than anything he could have ever said in that moment.

As long as this house had stood, his nightmare had a place to manifest, to lurk in silence. This was Sam's old home, in a way. But the destruction of it brought no sadness like it usually did for people who lose their homes.

It was gone. Sam was free. And all he had to say on the matter, before he turned and walked away forever, were two words.

"Good riddance."

* * *

Sam left Dean in the car for a moment, in the passenger's seat, which Dean vehemently objected to. 

"Dean," Sam said patiently, "just sit, okay? Give me five minutes." Dean would remember later how tired Sam had looked, and how scared at the same time. There were dark circles under his eyes, and when he spoke it a forced, patient ring to it. His hands were unsteady, weak, and he seemed to have trouble drawing enough air into his lungs to finish an entire sentence in one breath.

Dean remembered how he had run a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as if a sudden wave of dizziness had washed over him. Dean knew the feeling. His own head was going fuzzy around the edges, and the idea of going to sleep right there in the passenger's seat sounded really good. He would later kick himself over and over for his stupidity, for not remembering right then and there what he should have done. He hadn't been able to pull himself together enough to do the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam seemed satisfied when he saw Dean's lack of protest. He nodded, and then shut the door. Dean leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, but only for a moment, he promised himself.

That didn't work out so well. He could hear only selected phrases Sam was speaking into the phone as he drifted off unwillingly. "Yes, 911 Emergency? My brother and I...road trip...drove by and saw...yes, a lot of fire...probably kids, yeah...no, it didn't seem like there was anyone inside...I'll stay here, of course...questioning..."

A snapping sound was heard as he closed the phone, and then the sound of a battery being clicked out, the memory card taken out so there was no way of identifying the phone as his. He put the battery back in, and then smashed it against the ground. After that, Dean could be almost certain Sam threw the remains of the phone at the fiery building, but he was mostly unconscious by that point, and could barely remember his own name.

* * *

Sam crushed the phone under his shoe as hard as he could, cracking it, but that wasn't enough. He chucked it at the burning building with as much force as he could muster. 

Once Sam was through with that, he took a quick breather to get his bearing, to think about their situation. He knew they had to get out of there before the cops arrived; he had heard the news alert on the police radio to keep a look out for them. They had to get out of town, as far away as possible.

Sam took a second to think about how far he could make it. He could hear his own heart thumping painfully in his chest, and his forehead felt like it was on fire, though his entire body shivered. White spots had started to appear in his vision, and he blinked to clear his vision before getting into the driver's seat.

He could make the drive, he thought. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Enough time to get to the next town, to get to a motel and go to sleep. Just thinking about it made his stomach churn. His hands shook with fear; he didn't want to die. He never had. Yet he had always thought he would be braver in the face of his own mortality. He hadn't pictured hismelf being this completely terrified.

Taking a glance at Dean's sleeping, exhausted form, he felt the fear increase even more. Dean would kill him when he found him in the morning. He would bring Sam back to life just so he could kill him again. Sam laughed at the thought as he pulled out at top speed, swerving like a drunk driver, and made a mental note to slow down. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over on suspicion of DUI.

The drive was one of the hardest experiences of Sam's life. Excrutiating in every way, especially when he realized he had to drive to the next town while the poison pumped its way into the last phase, which the demon had promised would be slow, and painful. Most likely a half an hour at most.

His chest was burning, his heart throbbing with every beat. The white spots had turned to black spots, and were now practically blinding him. The blotches blacked out half his eyesight. His reflexes were slowed, his fingers trembling so badly he could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel. His stomach churned, making him wish he hadn't eaten the night before.

Mercifully, he finally reached a motel in the next town, just as he was beginning to think all hope was lost for getting to a warm room any time soon. He pulled the mirror down, wiping off what blood he could see on his face. He then clumsily swapped out his jacket for a clean and non-tattered one. His hair was wet, and had washed away most of the visible blood there, and he then put a pair of thin gloves on to cover the blood on his hands that he had a feeling would take time he didn't have to wash off.

He practically stumbled into the waiting room, using what little composure he had left to try to not seem like he was dying, squinting at the flourescent light and cursing the neon green color of the peeling walls around him. Nobody else was there, and he ambled over to the counter, pulling out the wallet he had in the car, leaning his whole weight on the wood. He tapped the bell, and almost instantly a grunt was heard from behind the curatin leading to the back room.

"Ernie!" an elderly female voice called irritatedly, opening a door in the back. "Someone's up front."

"What?" Ernie mumbled. "At three in the morning? Man, you get kids coming in at all hours these days." There was a creaking sound, like the man, Ernie, had been sleeping on a cot. They were a twenty-four hour service, Sam had gathered.

"Hold on," Ernie called patiently, coughing a little as an eye peered out at Sam for a split second from behind the curtain, taking in his ragged looks, his drenched clothes, the mud caked on his shoes. Not to mention his red rimmed eyes and pale face. She must have thought he was some guy off the street, a junkie, maybe. If they thought he was on drugs or drunk, he was past the point of caring, as long as they didn't see the blood.

"It's a young man," the woman's voice whispered, apparently under the impression Sam couldn't hear her. "He looks rather..."

"Look," Sam said, not in the mood for any of this, dropping his head into his hands. "I have money. I can pay you. I'm not here to rob you or anything; I just want a place to stay."

"Well, that's good enough for me, I suppose," Ernie said, coming out from behind the curtain, obviously in a bit of a better mood than his wife. He looked around seventy years old, with a large nose and wrinkles around his eyes. He had the look of someone who had seen a lot coming through the doors Sam had. He looked rather tired, but put on a nice front as he tilted his head up, adjusting his glasses to get a better look at Sam. He raised an eyebrow, and Sam just took a deep breath. Ernie didn't ask, just like Sam had silently prayed that he wouldn't.

"Just for you?" he asked politely, and his wife entered from behind him, wearing sweatpants, a flowery shirt, and a wary expression. She looked Sam up and down, scrutinizing him through mistrusting eyes.

"No, not just me." He jerked his head back towards the car, where Dean was fully visible asleep in the car, his head leaning against the windshield, oblivious to what was going on. Sam had to look away after a moment, knowing he was going to feel bad about this. There was no other way, though. Sam wasn't going to make it, and Dean didn't need the added problem of being there when it happened.

Sam swallowed, turning back to Ernie, and the man must have interpreted his pained expression for something else, something he could actually understand.

"Bad day?" he asked, indicating Dean, under the impression that he suddenly understood what was going on, and Sam let him think what he wanted. If this guy thought they were a couple going through relationship issues, he didn't care.

"Long day," Sam agreed.

"Will that be one bed or two?" Ernie asked, and Sam paused for a second, remembering his vision, how he had hear Ernie's nasally, rough voice before.

"Um..." Sam said, partly distracted. "It doesn't matter." It wasn't like he'd be using it for long. "As long as it's the first floor, I'm fine."

"Well, in that case," Ernie said, surveying the screen of the outdated computer in front of him. "We only have one room available on the first floor. One king sized bed."

"That's fine, I guess," Sam said, rubbing his temples as he tried to get the pain to go away. It was spreading now, and it was like his veins were pumping boiling hot liquid throughout his body. The poison was doing its job. He could feel his body starting to get ready to shut down, and he struggled just to stand up. Ernie handed him the key and he pushed hismelf away from the counter.

"Hey, son," Ernie called, and Sam turned. "Do you need me to call someone? Parents, friends? You don't look so good. Maybe I should call the hospital. It's cold out there, and that young man in the car doesn't look too good either. You might catch your death out there." Sam smiled weakly.

"I'll be fine," he assured Ernie before pushing the door open and stepping into the cold. "There's no one you could call, anyway," he muttered, half to himself.

"No family?"

"Just him." He gestured to Dean. "He's it."

Before the door shut, he hear Ernie's wife talking to him. "That boy looks like he's been to hell and back. Looks like he's about to collapse and die."

* * *

_And I saw God cry in  
The reflection of my enemies  
And all the lovers  
With no time for me  
And all of the mothers  
Raise their babies  
To stay away from me_

_-Golden by Fall Out Boy_

Dean was dead weight, practically, as Sam pulled him into the room. His eyes opened for a second, but he mostly just put one foot in front of the other in a half-hearted way, too tired to do anything but obey his little brother. Sam knew he might need a hospital, and that with a head injury of this type it was a bad thing for him to be so far unconscious, but he didn't have time to drive him all the way there. He would call 911 when he got the chance.

There was only one bed in the room, and Sam was fine with that. He laid Dean down on the bed as well as he could, but that ended up with Dean sideways on the bed, one foot dangling off the side. Sam made a feeble attempt to change his position, but practically carrying his big brother into the room had zapped most of his energy.

Sam stumbled to the bathroom with his small pack, pulling out a new shirt. He had no idea why he was bothering, but he was so cold. The least thing he could ask for when he died was to not be drenching wet and hypothermic. Plus, he had seen this before, in his vision. He had seen how horrible he looked, covered in blood. He didn't need anyone to think Dean had killed him, just in case they got to his body before Dean did.

The thought made another wave of terror go through him. He should not have been thinking about something like that, about what would happen to his body. He shouldn't have even been thinking about his death. Yet though he was thinking about it, he was doing routine things: changing clothes, washing his hands, getting a hotel room.

He changed clothes clumsily, his fingers fumbling with everything, but he managed, looking at himself in the mirror before opening the window and chucking out his bloodstained clothes into the garbage can below.

He peeled off his gloves, deciding the next off would be the blood, which hadn't been cleaned off, even in the river. The blood stain still remained on his lower arms and palms, a dull, washed out red, but there nonetheless. There had just been so much of it, too much to simply wash off. He scrubbed at his hands and arms with one of the complimentary towels, staying away from the nasty burn on his right arm where he had been singed (if only it had been the other arm, and he could get that fucking scar off), determined to get it off. Maybe then he could get the image out of his head, the memory of how he has sliced James' throat with ease, without even thinking twice.

The man was a demon; he would heal. That's what Sam tried to convince himself of. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't killed anyone.

Not yet. Hadn't those type of things gotten him in serious trouble before? He liked it. He liked the feeling of the blood running over his fingers, how the flesh had given way under his blow. Even James' semi-fearful expression had given him satisfaction. He had proven once and for all he wasn't afraid.

Sam kicked the cabinet in frustration, putting what little energy he had left into that one blow. Something else shattered, too, the mirror most likely; he heard it as he fell, his legs finally giving way underneath him, his world dissolving into a blurry mess once and for all. He heard the shards of glass falling around him, but he didn't feel them.

Shoving himself up, he struggled to see through the new, stronger haze. He felt around like a blind man, feeling like he was in the part of a funhouse where the floor moved underneath you, tipping and turning until you either made it to the other side or got sick.

He collapsed at the bed, sitting on the floor next to where he knew Dean was, leaning his back against the bed and trying to ignore the dizziness. Maybe the sleep would come faster if he could just relax, but other details just couldn't stop pestering him. He was tired, more exhausted than he had ever felt, but his mind wouldn't let him rest, maybe in reflex or something.

He tried to open his eyes as best he could, to look at something worth remembering, worth saying goodbye to. His mind wandered, stuck on the past, on the people he knew. His dad, for one. He tried to imagine John's expression when he found out. Dean would most likely call him first thing in the morning, but then what would they do? He had never considered what his family would do without him there. Probably the same as they had done when he was at college.

Dean was strong; he could keep going alone. He could keep hunting, doing what he did best. That was what his purpose was, to save lives. He had always had a knack for that Sam could never harness. He had admired Dean for that.

John and Dean would go on after his death just like they always did when someone died. After seeing so much death and destruction in their lives, this would just be another casualty of the war this world had against all the things out there, the supernatural beings.

His father and brother would make it just fine. They had made that perfectly clear. And he had been perfectly clear to Dean about what would happen. He had told him the day before that they had both known their time together was limited. Buying time was their only option. This whole thing had just been a long goodbye for both of them.

He reached out for his bag, remembering what he had seen in his vision. It made sense to him now, the call to John, and though he knew otherwise, he hoped in this reality John would answer.

His vision and senses were blurred, and he felt around the floor for the bag. His fingers had a delayed reaction to his brain, it seemed, and as a result he found it hard to grasp anything. He felt the leather strap of his bag finally and dragged it closer to his body, blinking to try and see it.

Something moved behind him as his fingers started to undo the clasps. He turned around quickly, making his head spin, hoping it was Dean, but it wasn't. The light bulb had just flickered in the lamp.

"Dean?" Sam asked his unresponsive brother insistently. As much as he wanted to avoid the result this would bring, he needed Dean. He needed to see him, otherwise he knew wouldn't get through this without freaking out in the end. He didn't want to be alone completely. He just needed to say goodbye, whether Dean was coherent enough to realize what he was saying. "Can you wake up for me? Just a few minutes?"

Dean didn't respond, as Sam knew he wouldn't. He waited as long as he could afford, and turned away, trying to give himself strength before sorting through his bag.

He followed what he had seen in his vision, dialing his father's number and pressing the send button.

"Come on," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Pick up." In that moment, he really hoped his father would pick up, would talk to him. He had never wanted his father more. John had never been exactly a supportive father figure, but with Dean gone, Sam needed someone. He needed his dad.

"This is John Winchester. I'm not available right now, but if this is an emergency, call my son, Dean, at 555-4327."

"Shit," he hissed desperately, feeling the despair leak in. "Dad, answer your phone for once." He waited for the beep, and then cleared his throat as best he could.

"Dad," he said weakly into the phone. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried, we tried, we really did, but I just...I don't have much time, and I wanted...well, I wanted to say goodbye. I know I said I hated you all those times, but I didn't. I just...I'm scared, dad." His voice broke. "Dean's unconscious, and you won't pick up. I'm scared. I don't want to die alone. When you get this, it'll probably be too late, but tell Dean...tell him to check his phone. I'm leaving a message for him. There's one last thing I need him to do. Ok? So, I'm sorry for everything, and...um, well..." He ran a hand over his face. Come on, Sam, he told himself. Suck it up. No matter how corny it sounds, just say it. "I love you, dad."

He hung up the phone, and then clicked the button to leave a voice memo. This one wasn't as personal as the last one, merely telling Dean to go on his e-mail, that there would be something there. That he didn't have time for anything else.

Sam snapped the phone shut, tossing it to the side rougly and slumping back against the bed. That was done with. Loose ends tied up as best they could be. His breathing was coming hard; it felt like there was something blocking his throat, stopping the air. His lungs seemed unwilling to expand like they usually did, like he was having a bad asthma attack. The panic didn't help his situation. The walls were closing in, he was almost sure of it. His vision was tunneling, everything but the center black. His limbs were barely responsive, his eyelids weighed down with invisible weights. He barely noticed at first when someone said his name.

"Sam?" Dean's voice asked blearily, and Sam pulled himself around, almost irritated at Dean. He was finally going to get some decent sleep, but Dean had to bring him back. Still, it was his duty to make sure Dean was alright.

By Dean's half-opened eyes, it was obvious he wasn't fully awake, just like he hadn't been in the vision. He had the same look he did all those nights he had come home from a hunt with John, so exhausted that he would wake up, but not remember anythign in the morning of an exchange he could have had with someone. If he didn't wake Dean up too much, he wouldn't even remember this.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, enough to keep him grounded, but not enough to let him drift off to sleep. Sam needed to see him awake for a few minutes.

"Sam," Dean repeated, with more finality. He squinted at the light, most likely on his way to a mild migrane, trying to study Sam's face. Years of brotherly experience taught him to be concerned even while asleep. "'re you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Sam insisted, though he knew he wasn't. "Just go back to sleep," he prodded, smiling. Dean was looking directly into his eyes now, and somehow he looked like he knew what was wrong, but he couldn't wake himself up enough. "You need it. And I promise," he continued, squeezing Dean's arm supportively, "that I'll be right here when you wake up." He smiled again, and then turned back as Dean's eyes closed again.

"No, you won't," Dean said, almost to himself, like he had forgotten something important. He had gotten a really good hit on the head; Sam wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't remember his own name. Sam smiled at nothing particularly as he drifted off, his world dissolving into a haze for the final time. The last thing he was aware of was something clattering next to him.

* * *

Oh, god. Why had he fallen asleep? Why had he forgotten everything? Why had he not paid attention? Why had he_ forgotten to be a big brother?_

There was no excuse for his stupidity, none at all, and he cursed himself for it. After diving into the river, he had forgotten almost everything that had happened in the house he had jumped from. He had forgotten the very thing that could save Sam's life.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean hissed, ignoring the pounding of his own head. He practically fell as he rolled out of the bed beside Sam. The youngest Winchester's face was white, his hair singed from the fire and still wet. His new shirt was starting to get blood on it from the cut on his arm which he had clumsily cleaned. A thin sheet of sweat glazed over his forehead, and Dean could feel the heat radiating off it from an inch away. He was barely breathing, and neither was Dean.

Everything was coming back. Adrenaline cleared his head for once instead of muddling it. He remembered what he had forgotten, about the house, about Sam's bag. He had forgotten what he had found before the explosion, what Sam had dropped.

Reaching in his pocket, he prayed that he didn't feel broken glass. His fingers did meet glass, but when he pulled it out, it was still in one piece. It was amiracle it had survived the explosion and the jump, but it had. Maybe it was some sort of supernatural or demon thing, but he didn't care. It could save Sam.

Sam struggled incoherently for a moment, eyes slit open, barely recognizing his brother, alarmed at the syringe. He had too many bad experiences with those things, and Dean had to pin his arm down to inject it.

He had no way of knowing if it would work. For all he knew, the cure idea could have been a trick. When he was threatening to kill Rachel, she could have been lying about what it was, telling Dean what he wanted to hear when she had told him about James having the cure, but Dean didn't think so. He understood the logic there. They didn't want Sam to die.

Then again, the younger man wasn't looking good. He was near death as it was, maybe too far to be brought back by any means. But even then, Dean didn't let himself panic. It would do him no good. As helpless as he felt, he knew he had to help Sam. How, he just didn't know.

**A/N: Sorry if that last bit seemed a little rushed, but I couldn't think of anything else to put. I might go back and rewrite it later. Basically, he had found the cure, and was going to give it to Sam after they jumped, but he had a head injury and was barely even awake and forgot. I know, how do you forget something like that? You do if your head is bleeding and you've been drowning in a freezing cold river in the middle of winter after surviving a giant explosion and jumping out of a window from the second story and are near hypothermic. lol.  
****Anyway, no idea when next chapter will be up. I haven't exactly finished it, which is strange for me. I have a certain system...never mind, I'm weird that way. The main idea is that I'll update when I finish, whether it's next Wednesday as normal, sooner, or later. I'm getting stressed at school right now, and all my teachers are being just...ugh.  
****Up Next: Who's going to live; who's going to die? What's the reality of the visions Sam's been having? How do they all fit in if Sam's dying?  
****Not all of those will be answered next chapter. In fact, NONE of them will be answered next chapter. This one will: Is Sam going to die next chapter? REVIEW!!!!!! Sammy needs you to review. He's not available to do the puppy dog eyes right now, but...he still wants you to review. **


	61. Through The Dark

**Chapter 61: Through The Dark**

_As I walk away  
I look over my shoulder  
To see what I'm leaving behind  
Pieces of puzzles  
And wishes on eyelashes fail  
-Through The Dark by KT Tunstall _

At first, Sam got better. About five minutes after the cure had entered his bloodstream, he started breathing better. It evened out to a rhythmic rate, as did his heartbeat, and only then had Dean given himself the least bit of relief. Sam's fever went down next, from 102.5 degrees to 100.

It stayed like that for twenty minutes before the shit really hit the fan. It took Dean about a minute to notice the change in his brother. Sam's face went pale, the cold sweat coming back. His hands were shaking, his teeth chattering like he was freezing. Dean checked his temperature again to see the reading was now 103.2, worse than it had been before. His own heart skipped a beat.

"Come on," he said, more to himself than anyone else. Sam couldn't hear him anyway. "This would be a good time to start remembering first aid, Dean."

Like that would even help. Drowning, burns, stab wounds,_ those_ he knew how to treat. But a demonic virus gone wrong was just ridiculous. And this was happening_ after_ he had given him the antidote. He had no idea what he was doing.

As if someone had heard his panic, Dean heard the opening strings of Metallica's Master of Puppets, his phone ringing. It took him a split second to see it thrown in the corner of the room. Barely anyone knew the number, and only one could have been calling right then.

"Dad?" he said incredulously into the phone.

"Where is he?" John's voice said from the other end, just as concerned as he had been before he had left.

"How did you---"

"Where is he?" John insisted. "Is he alright? Is he _alive_?"

_Not for long, _the voice in Dean's head whispered.

"I don't know," Dean responded hesitantly. Soon the words began pouring out of his mouth. Everything came out in a desperate jumble, as muddled and frantic as his mind was. He could have sworn his voice was steadily getting higher, making him even more unintelligible to everyone, including himself. He was telling John everything, even the stuff he should have known wasn't important. He was just so confused he couldn't remember what the important parts were. If he hadn't been speaking about it, he might have forgotten everything that had happened that night.

'Slow down!" John said from the other end, picking up on his son's terror. "Just tell me what's going on _right now_."

Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face, as if that would release some of the pressure. As if that would push out the image of what could happen, of Sam lying there cold and dead. Images that made him want to break down right there. He couldn't let them get to him. They weren't an excuse to give up on Sam then because he was scared.

He took another breath and explained what was going on, his voice calmer. All of the emotions were pushed to the back of his mind for the meantime. Now it was all business. He explained the symptoms in as best detail as he could.

"Okay," John said, his voice shaky. He hadn't been like that at the beginning of the conversation, but hearing his oldest son losing his calm had gotten to him. Dean was always the one in control of every situation. It wasn't like him to follow orders like this without question (of course he did better that Sam in that respect, but that didn't mean he hadn't had his own stubborn tendencies) and John had never minded that about him. But somehow this Dean felt more real, like more of a human. For once he wasn't trying to act like he was invincible. He needed help, and he was willing to admit that openly and without hesitation. "Put me on speakerphone." Dean obeyed without question, setting the phone on the table next to the TV. "Can you hear me?" he tested.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed impatiently, returning to Sam's side.

"What's his fever at?" John asked.

"Last time I checked, 104, but it's been going up steadily for about the last fifteen minutes."

"Alright, Dean, listen to me," John said, his voice suddenly more commanding. Dean recognized that tone with relief. It meant John had a steadier plan. "You _have_ to bring that fever down, and fast. Do not let it get any higher. You're lucky he hasn't gone into shock, and you've probably got a matter of minutes before he does unless you do something. His body temperature had been fluctuating too much, and if you don't get it down to a normal level, his body is going to start shutting down. Do you understand me?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir," he clarified for the phone.

* * *

_And I used to talk  
With honest conviction  
Of how I predicted my world  
I'm gonna leave it to to star gazers  
Tell me what your telescope says  
Oh what is in store for me now?  
It's coming apart  
I know that it's true  
'cause I'm feeling my way through the dark_

Through the haze Sam's mind was in, he heard voices. Urgent voices. One was nearby, one very far away. He couldn't be sure of either of them, who they were. They could be anyone, for all he knew. Cops, demons, anyone.

Then they said his name. They were talking about him. One of them, the one nearby, sounded scared. Why would they be scared of him? Had he done anything? Had he blacked out and hurt someone? Or were they the demons, afraid he would wake up before they took him where he needed to be held next? For a moment, he thought he was back there, with them, waiting to be taken back into that room, with the demon.

Strong arms gripped him, and he fought them. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't look into those yellow eyes again, have his mind invaded, picked apart, every single memory relived in full color as they tried to discover 'what made him tick'. He couldn't deal with the pain again, the brutal cold, the constant reassurance that they were keeping Dean informed to stay away, using his own powers to hurt his brother in his sleep. He had watched Dean bleed before him, at his own hands, and they had promised to do it again, since the new method hadn't worked.

He was used to the fever, the sweat, the pain, but it felt different than usual. He wasn't as cold as he usually was when they took him away. The demon wasn't whispering in his ear this time, trying to find some switch to set him off.

But he saw the yellow eyes. His lids closed, they still glared at him. Toward the end, he had become sure he was hallucinating, the fever they had brought upon him to break him down even more, making him see his worst nightmare. He wouldn't put it past them. He was almost hoping it was a hallucination, but the next time he saw the demon, forced to look into those eyes one more time, they held a promise.

_"You will never stop seeing it, Sam. You will never be free of me as long as you live. You will always see the same thing, whenever you close your eyes. You will see what you are, what you were born as. Every night, you must see it, for being denied of us for all of your life. I will make sure you always remember the vow you made to me. You are mine forever. _Never_ forget that." _

That was the day he had gotten the scar on his arm. He had blacked out for the first time, having the sense for once that he wasn't alone, that there was something keeping him from falling into the oblivion. He could almost sense it stepping in.

That memory had been taken from him, like so many others. All he knew was that he woke up the next day, his arm still burned red and raw from the emblem, turning black as he watched it, like liquid acid working its way along the path of the symbol. He remembered seeing the yellow eyes that night when he had finally succumbed to sleep, and had woken up feeling like he hadn't gotten any rest. It hadn't been worth the nightmare to get this little recuperation.

He hadn't slept after that. The most he got were states like this, the aftereffects of whatever the demon was doing in his brain, rearranging thought and memories. His mind always felt wrong after it. He didn't feel right, like his thoughts weren't his own. Things had started moving on their own, and after violent fits he would have, he would sink into this half-oblivion before someone came to get him again.

He couldn't go again. He wouldn't, he promised himself. Whoever this one was, he fought against him, and they made a choking sound when he wouldn't cooperate. That was a strange reaction. He almost sounded desperate; like that strangled sound had been a poor attempt at holding back the pure panic inside him.

"Why don't you just kill me already?" he muttered, and the man sighed in an impatient way.

The man called out to someone, and a muffled sound met Sam's ears. It was unwelcome when he heard his name muttered softly, reassuringly. A hand rested on his shoulder.

"Sammy..." the voice repeated, and Sam's brow furrowed. No one got to call him that but Dean. No one ever did, in fact, unless they were making fun of him, and this person's voice didn't sound mocking in the least bit. He was serious, dead serious, and that threw Sam off for a second. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear."

_Then why are you here? _

"I need you to trust me," the man said in a serious voice. Whoever it was had picked up on Sam's hesitation, and had taken the opportunity to lift Sam's arm up around his own neck in support. "Hold on." A supportive arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him up.

He tried to move he really did, but his legs were unresponsive. They moved sluggishly, just like his brain.

The man didn't seem to notice. If anything, he merely seemed impatient, but not furious like Sam would have expected.

"Sam, I can't carry you," his voice said, his exhaustion apparent. "I just can't. Help me out a little." Sam tried even harder to concentrate, and he managed to balance himself a bit better, though he leaned heavily on the man for support.

They stopped walking, and Sam felt himself being lowered down. It was cold were he was, the floor hard and chilly. He shivered involuntarily.

"It's going to get a lot colder in there for you, Sam, so I apologize in advance."

The buzzing started in the back again, and Sam could pick up a few select words. "...room temp...shock...steady...check up...easy, remember..."

Then he was shocked back as something cold his face. Water, and lots of it. Freezing cold water, bringing him back for a split second before numbing his brain again. For that second he realized he wasn't back with the demon. He was in a hotel room, in a shower, his new, dry clothes getting steadily drenched. He tried to pull himself out before he froze to death, using the slippery side of the tub as a balance, but a hand stopped him.

"No, you don't," Dean warned, half-wet himself as he propped Sam up into a semi-sitting position. "He's regaining consciousness. Is that a good sign?" Sam raised an eyebrow, wondering vaguely if Dean was talking to him. He apparently wasn't, as another voice he had interpreted as the buzzing replied from the next room.

"I think so," he said. "Be careful, though. He's probably delirious."

"I noticed," Dean said matter-of-factly, smiling weakly and without humor in Sam's direction, like it was some inside joke. Sam could only half see him through his dripping wet bangs, and was losing interest fast. Everything was spinning again, including his stomach, and he suddenly felt nauseous. He gagged. "Whoa, Sam, are you going to puke?" Dean took a reflexive step back, pulling a trash can towards them, but Sam shook his head.

"Dizzy...everything's...spinning..." he gasped out in between his laborous, and now painful breaths. His head was feeling light, the world tipping in every which way. All of the colors in the room turned darker for a second, the lights rearranging themselves like the slides in a kaleidoscope.

"Sam?" Dean said, his voice more concerned as he came closer. They were both drenching now, as Dean had pulled himself inside the tub to inspect Sam closer. The shower curtain hadn't been pulled closed, so the water drizzled along the floor. For a second, it looked red, like blood, as did the water around them. Both his and Dean's blood was being washed off, drained down into the sewer like it had never existed. This would be just a memory to Dean, he hoped. In a few weeks, it would be like they had never bled there in the first place. Dean would heal, and Sam would be gone. "Sammy? Are you with me here?" There were two faces in front of him, twin images. They both looked scared, eyes wide and red from stress. It was going dark around the edges.

"Sam, stay with me," Dean said desperately, but Sam wasn't listening. His arm hurt where he had felt the needle pierce his skin. A shooting pain was extending outward from it, separate from all the others. It moved its way past his elbow, and now the rest of his body ached. His heart was throbbing in a different way than before, strong and normal, but painful, like it was trying to make up for its previous weakness.

A hand was on his forehead, feeling his temperature, the fingers unsteady and shaking. "His fever's coming down," he called to John in the next room, his tone optimistic. "Why is he doing this? He looks like he can't breathe."

"I'm...fine," Sam insisted, trying to calm his gasping. "I'll be...fine...I swear." Dean didn't look convinced, and Sam rolled his eyes. Somehow, that made him dizzier, and he tipped to the side, no longer shivering from the torrents of water from the shower. Dean pulled himself farther into the tub, pulling Sam back up, holding Sam's weak body against his for support as he waited for John's answer. Sam couldn't hear what his father said. The rushing water sounded louder, drowning everything else out. He couldn't hear anything over the roar.

Then it stopped suddenly. There was a squeaking sound, a sense of being gently pulled up to a standing position, being laid down on a bed, something cold against his forehead, and then nothing...

* * *

_Try to find a light on somewhere  
Try to find a light on somewhere_

For a long time, all he was aware of was the sound of his own erratic breathing.

"In...Out..." he reminded himself, trying to concentrate on that instead of the commotion around him.

His head was moved gently from whatever it was resting on, a hard surface, to a pillow. He didn't like being moved, and he tried to move back against the will of the person moving him. It wasn't the same when he went back, and allowed whoever it was to lift his head back onto the pillow. He got annoyed a little when someone brushed the hair out of his eyes, though.

In...Out...

Monotone voices, drained and stressed. One of them was saying his name again, to him, about him, all the time. The other voice was instructional, used to giving orders.

In...Out...

Whatever had been the cold compress on his forehead was removed suddenly, and for some reason that made him shudder. The voices still hadn't stopped talking for more than a few seconds.

In...Out...

Was it just his imagination, or had his heart seemed to have calmed at last?

In...Out...

He could feel warmth in the sheets, in his fingers, his feet, everywhere. The cold was gone. The cold sweat had stopped, and the voices around him had slowed.

In...Out...

"Do you think...?"

"He'll be alright?"

"Yeah."

"I think so, Dean."

In...Out...

* * *

_- Lawrence, Kansas-_

John hung up the phone with a soft click. His hand hovered over the receiver for a moment as he considered calling back. He felt bad enough walking out the two days previously, and he found himself unwilling to sever that tie again. Didn't he owe it to his sons to at least stay on the phone with Dean for a few more minutes? He couldn't let the man fend for himself just yet; he was practically falling apart. What if something else happened to Sam?

"Then Dean will call you," a voice finished his thought for him, picking up on his concern. "How is Sam?" Missouri asked, and John turned.

"Um..." he said, at a loss for words. He was eternally grateful to Missouri for letting him stay there the night and use the phone, but he wasn't sure what kind of conversation she was likely to bring up. "He's better," John finally answered, his voice strained. "His fever went down to 100.8, and he can breathe more easily, so that's good. Dean said he even woke up a little at one point."

"That's good news, then," Missouri said, but the sentiment was lost in her cold tone. She was still upset at John; she had been ever since she found out why he had come. John had simply told her he wanted to stay close to where his sons had last been so he could keep track of them. Then she had read his mind and found out about the fight he had with Dean. "Good thing he called. They got out of there right after you left; you probably would have had a hard time finding them. Where were they?" She took a seat at the desk next to him.

"They're upstate," John answered hesitantly. "Dean says Sam took them to this...little house in the middle of nowhere. Burned it to the ground. Dean told me it was where the demon was keeping Sam back when..." His voice had become rougher, hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Well, you know."

"Yes, I do," Missouri said.

"I thought he was in New York?"

"By the time Dean got the dream, he was gone. They had already started to move him. There was no way we could have known that the whole time---"

"The whole time, what?" John said in a strangled voice. "That the whole time that _thing_ had my son, he was dangling him in front of our noses and we didn't even realize it?" He shook his head, angry.

"It's not that simple, John," Missouri said, annoyance creeping into her tone.

"It is," he threw back. "The demon was _teasing_ us, Missouri. He had my son, here I am searching everywhere from... California to Hong Kong, and he was here the whole time, a three hour drive away from me."

"Well, the closeness would explain how easily Sam was able to contact Dean for help."

"He contacted Dean for help," John muttered bitterly. "When he was in pain, when he thought he was going to die, he reached out for the person he trusted most." He shook his head. "And that wasn't me. That was Dean." Missouri remained silent. "I should have found a way to know. I should have known he was so close. I should have gotten him out of there faster." He bit his lip. "I should have saved my son."

"He never needed saving, John," Missouri insisted. "He doesn't need help. He just needs time. He's alive. That's all that matters; he _has_ time to heal."

"You didn't see him," John said quietly. "You never saw his face, when he asked me to let him go. I never wanted to see him like that, _ever_. You don't know what it's like to see your son ready to die."

"No," Missouri agreed. "But I've seen a father go to extreme lengths to help his son, and only end up hurting himself." John raised an eyebrow.

"What are you talking about?"

"He's remembering, John," she said, and John froze, the blood in his veins running cold all of a sudden.

_"What? _I thought you told me--"

"He's too powerful, John," Missouri said, not looking nearly as shocked as John was. "The memory is coming back. You can't keep something like that hidden from someone like him. He wants to remember."

"You told me, you _swore _to me that he would never remember that. You said you had taken care of it, that you could take the memory away."

"I can't take memories away, John," Missouri scolded. "I can just bury them, really deep. But Sam...it's been ten years. He was only fifteen when it happened. In all that time, we knew there was a chance it would come unburied in all of this. With the demon picking his brain apart and all this stress and his visions, it was bound to come up."

"Jesus Christ," John hissed, running a hand over his face. Missouri swatted him.

"It was a powerful memory," she continued, indignant. "I promised to hide one of the biggest moments of his life." She shook her head. "I _still _don't know if it was the right thing to do," she muttered to herself, looking back on it.

"He didn't need to know," John defended quietly.

"Yes, he did," Missouri said with unexpected anger. "Even if he didn't need to know, he _deserved _to know what was happening to him. He deserved to know who he was _right then_, on his own terms, rather than when he was kidnapped by some demon and told then."

"He nearly killed three people that day," John argued. "You think he could have handled that at his age?"

"All the more reason why he would know to be on his guard."

"From what?" John spat. "He was too young to understand what was going on."

"You're never too young to know to be on your guard. To know what happens when you let that guard down."

"I don't regret what I did that day," John said matter-of-factly. "And you may not understand why I did it, but I had good reason. He was my son, and he was only fifteen years old. He deserved a chance to think he was normal for awhile."

"What you did was not hiding what he was, what he did that day," Missouri said angrily. "You didn't stop anything from happening. You didn't stop him from ever turning again. You just made him oblivious to who he was._ What_ he was."

"What was I supposed to do?" John said. "My son gets attacked my some poltergeist at school, shoots its head off, and runs off. I track him down, and I find him covered in blood. I don't know what he did, where he's been. His eyes are pitch black, and he's talking about some...yellow-eyed demon, and then takes out my gun, which he stole from me, and shoots me. Then when I come to, he's unconscious on the ground, and when he comes to he's in shock. He was aware of his actions. You don't know how scared he was."

"So you did the first thing you thought of to make sure he didn't look _scared_? You are aware of the things you've put them through over the years, aren't you?" John shot her a glare.

"I didn't want him to remember," John threw back, "because he was just a kid. Because you had already told me before there was no risk of him even developing powers. You told me you had made sure he wouldn't _have _those powers, so there would be no reason the demon would come after him."

"I was wrong, John," Missouri said angrily. "People will make mistakes." Missouri paused for a moment, staring at him, and John didn't question what he knew she was doing. She stayed silent for a very long time before speaking. "You have to leave," she said quietly.

" Missouri--"

"You, Sam, Dean, all of you. You have to get out of here. They will all hunt you down for this. If they know what happened that day, if they knew how he had turned so much earlier than the others, then they will come after you for what you did. You know very well what they do to those who hold back children like him when they've started to turn. They've been toying with you all these years, waiting for him to turn. If they learn that you've hidden him from them, things won't be fun and games for any of you."

"They never--"

"So you have to go. They'll wait, give you time, but they'll regroup. They'll come back, and they will hunt you down like animals. You can't stand your ground forever. You all need to run as far and as fast as possible. Out of the country, if you can. Start a new life, continue hunting there. It won't last forever, but it'll give you time. Sam can get better."

* * *

_I'm finding I'm falling in love with the dark over here  
Oh oh what do I know I don't care  
Where I start _

He could move his limbs. If he tried hard enough, his fingers could bend weakly. He turned his head to the side, his neck stiff from remaining in the same position for so long. More noises now sprung out at him, too low to have been heard before. He could hear birds chirping happily; the sun must be coming out.

His eyes opened.

Sam didn't cringe at the sunlight, though it was bright enough to hurt his eyes. He lay on his back, his head turned to his right, facing the window. He reached up to his eyes to wipe the sleep out of them, and ran a hand through his hair. It still felt damp, as did his clothes. Sam turned his head, looking for the person he knew would be there.

That person perched on the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard, his feet crossed in front of him lazily. A remote perched in his hand. He was flipping through channels aimlessly, not noticing Sam's movement. He probably thought Sam was just tossing in his sleep.

"So I guess I'm still alive," Sam muttered.

"I'd say so," Dean responded, unsurprised with Sam's waking. He landed on a channel he wanted and glanced at Sam beside him. "Nothing's on," he said in a bored way. He'd landed on some VH1 reality show. "How're you holding up?"

"I feel like I've been hit by a bus," Sam said, his voice raspy, his throat scratchy.

"Good," Dean said simply. "You deserve it." Sam didn't answer as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "You should have woken me up," Dean said, anger bubbling underneath his calm surface. "Don't even throw me all that saintly, 'I did what I had to' crap. You should have woken me up, and that's it."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, unable to put much conviction into his voice. His head was already starting to spin.

"You scared the shit out of dad," Dean said, like that was a true crime. Even Sam couldn't ignore the undertone. "But that's taken care of," he said.

"We did it," Sam said, a grin creeping back onto his face. Dean seemed to find that surprising; Sam never knew how much Dean had wanted to see a real smile on his face. It was a sign of hope to him for things to come.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, his smile widening. "We did it."

_For my troubles are few  
As I'm feeling my way through the dark  
Through the dark  
I'm feeling my way through the dark _

**A/N: OK, thanks for reading. This is not over (even though it kind of feels like it should, since it's so long) so please review. Sorry if that part w/ John and Missouri confused you. It'll be brought up again.**

**Next chapter takes place about a week/2 weeks later in the story, just an FYI. Review, pretty please. It means a lot to me. Any suggestions, criticism, etc. are welcome, remember, and thanks so much to all the people who keep reviewing every chapter. You guys are great!**


	62. Memory

**Chapter 62: Memory **

_I can not wait for a new improved way  
To let you know you're more to me than I know how to say  
You're ok with the way this is going to be  
Cause this is going to be the best thing that we've ever seen  
If anyone could make me a better person, you could  
All I gotta say is I must have done something good  
You came along one day and you rearranged my life  
-Must Have Done Something Right by Relient K_

The next week and a half had been the best days they'd had for the past two months. For once, there was a sense that Sam might seriously be getting better. He smiled more than he had, joked around, and even seemed to think more clearly. Though Dean often stayed up waiting for it, Sam never stirred at night anymore, staying in a deep sleep without upset. The dark circles under his eyes were going away, all signs of exhaustion and depression with it.

A week went by without a disruption. They checked out of the motel without a single problem, except for Dean's scramble to assure Ernie that he and Sam weren't together when his wife commented they made a "cute couple." It was hard to do, considering Sam had been in such a rush he had gotten a room with one bed. (Dean had been too tired to care after the commotion of the night and had fallen asleep propped up against the pillows while Sam took control of the remote and retired later.) Even then, Dean rolled his eyes when Eileen said to her husband, "I think they'll last. So adorable" as they walked out.

They spent the days after that driving nowhere in particular, stopping randomly and for no apparent reason. They had no need to rush anything. Sam recovered within three days and was taking the night shift of driving, though Dean always seemed to wake up whenever Sam made to change the station. He had only managed to switch it twice in all of their travel.

As they made their way northeast, neither of them really talked about what had happened. They never mentioned those two months anymore. It was like they had set that aside, like none of the events had ever happened. There was no need to speak of those times again. They were behind them now. Of course, they still took all the necessary precautions for their safety, but it never seemed to be a problem. They both knew it wasn't the end, but they were at least trying to sink back into their normal routine.

It was strange how much that little week had done for them. But there was no denying that ever since Sam woke up from nearly dying once again, he was different. Gone was the Sam that was afraid to live and ready to die. The warmth had come back, the spark in his eye.

And Dean was eternally grateful to whatever god there was. All he had wanted was his brother back, whole and healthy. For awhile there, he had begun to lose hope; it had been increasingly harder for Dean to even imagine a way where Sam could get better this fast. Yet there he was, and he knew Sam wasn't faking it. He would know if Sam was just putting on a front, and he wasn't.

It was a matter of only a week before Dean had asked Sam about going back to work. A poltergeist had been spotted new New York City. Dean remembered asking profusely whether Sam was ready, but all his little brother would do was patiently smile and answer that yes, he was ready to go back to it.

Not that there weren't those stray moments when Dean would catch Sam sliding back briefly into his thoughts, or those times where his eyes seemed to change color for a split second. He guessed that would never go away, and the memories were too hard to suppress all the time. Still, Sam had spent too much time torturing himself about what he had done. He needed time to get better. His near-death experience, and the relief that came afterwards, strangely did miracles for him. His other side seemed to be laying low for then, and though they had no idea when it would come back, they enjoyed the time they had without the added weight.

Sam was happy again.

The job went without problem from either of them. The only thing that seemed to bother Sam was the celebration afterwards. He had insisted on drinking again, and Dean was dreading waking him up, remembering how Sam was when it came to hangovers. He had one himself, and his head was killing him. He only remembered faintly what had happened once they got back to the hotel room from the bar across the street, though he had definitely been more coherent than Sam was. He did remember watching a late night showing of Zoolander with Sam, and his brother passing out within the first hour and a half. Dean himself must have fallen asleep at around five in the morning.

Now it was ten, and time to wake Sam up. Sure enough:

"I swear to you, Dean, I will rip your throat out if you try to wake me up one more time," Sam groaned into the pillow. Dean smiled in response.

"I've been up since eight, Sammy, and you don't see me complaining about being tired," he said to his unresponsive brother. Sam was still in bed, though the sun had been out for a good amount of time. His eyes were cracked open suspiciously, regarding Dean's face as if he were wondering whether or not he was still asleep.

"Well, good for you, then," Sam mumbled, burying his face into his pillow after squinting heavily into the light. He had been doing this every single day for the last week an a half, claiming that he was making up for all the sleep he had lost over the last two months. While Dean didn't argue with the logic, he figured ten hours of sleep was enough by this point.

"Sometimes, you are such a wuss," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"It's not my fault you made me drink so much last night," Sam threw back at him, raising his head a fraction of an inch to raise an eyebrow, and Dean couldn't help but smile at how ridiculous his hair looked.

"You didn't have to come," Dean argued, not budging on his stance. "And it was a celebration for a successful hunt. I think we set a new record for how quick we wasted that poltergeist."

Sam smirked. "Close the blinds. Hangover," was all he said before flopping back onto the bed.

"You had two beers," Dean said incredulously, rolling his eyes. "I highly doubt that would give you a hangover_ that_ bad."

"You'd be surprised," Sam muttered, and gave Dean a 'Go away' glare before closing his eyes again. When Dean didn't move, he exhaled deeply, annoyed, before looking at the alarm clock. Seeing how late it was, he did that stupid, indignant, half-pout, half-glare thing he'd done since he was five. Letting out an annoyed groan, he threw the sheets off him.

Dean leaned back on his own bed lazily, feeling accomplished. "I hope you're happy with yourself," Sam mumbled.

"Every single day," Dean said lightly, flipping through the channels until he got to a re-run of some new drama he had gotten hooked on lately. He pulled a flask out and held it out for Sam.

"No thanks," Sam said.

"It's not alcohol," Dean said. "It's what I take for hangovers." Sam briefly looked suspicious, but took it anyway.

"Do I even want to know what's in this?" he asked apprehensively, looking at the liquid.

"It's best you don't ask," Dean answered simply.

"Wonderful." Sam rolled his eyes, but a smirk was playing on the corners of his lips.

"So..." Dean started tentatively, and Sam looked up at him, picking up that this was going to be a serious topic. "I was talking to dad about...well, what we were talking about the other day." Sam nodded; Dean had already brought up Missouri's suggestion that they run. Sam had agreed to it, though Dean was the skeptical one at first. They would have to go as far as they could. They would have to leave the country.

"And...?" Sam asked curiously. "What about it?"

"Well...I know we've just kind of gotten back into this whole routine again, but he says we might not have that much time, and we might want to head out sooner than we thought."

"Like, when?" Sam prodded. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

"Like...Monday," he admitted grudgingly. Sam sat in silence; today was Saturday.

"Um..." he said, shaking his head as he tried to think of the right words."Sure, I guess." He smiled, and it looked genuine.

"We're going to have to start over," Dean said quietly.

"I know," Sam agreed. "But that's what we do, right? We start over all the time." He shrugged. "This time it'll just be a little farther away than usual."

"A lot farther away than usual," Dean agreed. "But it'll give us time."

"Time for what?" Sam asked. He didn't say it in his usual, depressed, dark way. It was just a casual statement, teasing even. Dean didn't answer, giving his brother the _"You know what I mean, dumbass_," look that they had both used since junior high. Sam moved on to the next question. "Where are we going?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Dean said, and for some reason he found that strangely funny. "Dad wouldn't tell me. I mean, not in the stupid 'You'll have to wait and see the surprise' way or anything. He just wasn't sure if the phone was bugged."

"Or maybe it _is_ a surprise," Sam finished in a fake conspiratorial way.

"Right," Dean retorted sarcastically. "Like on America's Next Top Model. I am not going to squeal and jump up and down, if that's what you're thinking." Sam snorted, smile widening, but there was something else in his face, a trace of the darkness from before that Dean had been on a constant watch for.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Dean asked, and Sam scoffed. It seemed fake, and Dean paused as he watched Sam's eyes darken to a black shade for a moment. Dean knew what that usually meant. Sam's other side would give its input on things whenever it thought it had a chance getting at Sam. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but Dean was always on guard. They had developed an almost routine for these situations, though they never addressed it to each other. It was one of the topics from the last two months they had silently agreed not to speak of.

Dean reached out for Sam's shoulder lightly, just as he usually did, and Sam looked up in surprise. He shook his head, his sign for_ 'It's okay, just a passing thing. No serious problem.'_

"Do you..." Dean asked, trying to find the right words, and Sam patiently waited, staring in his new, piercing way. The stare was one of the few traits he hadn't seemed to let go of ever since he had come back. He most likely didn't even realize he was doing it, but Dean was creeped out nonetheless. Whenever he looked into Sam's eyes in times like these, he was always sucked back into that night he had seen Sam in full-out evil mode. His eyes would always be a little colder than they had been before. "Do you think we should do this? Leave?"

"Of course," Sam answered without hesitation, and Dean chanced a look at his face. He was still looking at Dean, giving him that strange feeling he was in his mind, listening to his thoughts. Sam had done it before; he wouldn't be surprised if he could do it again.

Sam had already been showing premature signs of his powers. After the entire incident, things were out of control. Dean had walked into the bathroom in the morning after waking up to see Sam's toothbrush hovering inches above the sink. It fell and clattered to the floor once Sam realized Dean was in the room, and he had scrambled to assure him it wouldn't happen again.

"Let me see it again," was all Dean said. Sam shook his head.

"I can't...I can't control it. It just happens." Dean had nodded and left Sam to his privacy.

There was no telling which one of his abilities he could harness next, or what the repercussions on him would be. For all Dean knew, using his powers could corrupt him just like it had Max.

Sam brought him back to the present. "Why shouldn't we go?" he asked.

"I don't know...it's our home."

"We never had a home, Dean," Sam said coolly.

"You know what I mean," Dean snapped.

Sam nodded, acknowledging that he did. "You know what they say. The only thing constant in this world is change. Change for the better, change for the worse, we have no control."

Dean smiled sourly. "Well, Sam," he said. "That was beautiful. Practically _Shakespearian_. Thanks." Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Well, are you sure you'll be alright on the_ plane_, Dean?" Sam threw back, putting emphasis on 'plane'. This time it was Dean's turn to glare.

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" Dean said.

"Eight hours or more on a plane is a long time, Dean," he said calmly, casually, like a passing statement. "Let's not forget the last time you were on one." Sam did a strangely accurate version of Dean, face contorted in fear and pressed against the wall.

"Ok, it was_ crashing_, Sam," Dean defended, raising his voice over Sam's strangely annoying trademark laugh. He didn't seem to be listening _"Crashing_. As in, falling out of the sky into the hard, deadly ground. I kept picturing my body squashed on the ground, and how crappy it would be for that to be the way I die. Don't tell me you weren't--_shut up or I'm gonna punch your face in, Sam." _Sam had enough experience in these matters to know Dean didn't mean it. It came with the territory of being brothers.

Dean punched him solidly in the arm.

"Ow, that hurt," Sam said.

"Wuss," Dean spat.

"Sissy," Sam threw back.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

_This may never start.  
We could fall apart.  
And I'd be your memory.  
Lost your sense of fear.  
Feelings insincere.  
Can I be your memory?  
-Memory by Sugarcult_

**A/N: Sorry if by changing songs it was a little confusing or whatever, so sorry. I just thought that fit better at the end than the beginning. It's a little bit of foreshadowing, even though it's a really happy song when you listen to it. In this sense, I always think of it like keeping the memories, cuz you never know when it's going to all end. **

**Um...thanks for reading. Sorry this was short and late and transition-y (my new favorite word) but next chapter is going to be super long, I think. It's also kicking off my virtual season finale, including a little dorky thing where I actually put where the opening credit (Supernatural in flaming letters) would be, and it's going to start out from a TOTALLY different perspective, like normal episodes usually do, and then go back to Sam and Dean. And as you know, since it starts the season finale, things are going to get very...interesting. No idea when it'll be up, but if I get more reviews, I might be motivated to write faster... **

**(In case you didn't get it, I'm trying to subtly (yeah, right) hint that you should review and I'll get the chapter out faster) -winkwinknudgenudge- Know what I mean?**


	63. Imagine This

**Chapter 63: Imagine This**

_I can't save us from the outside  
I can't take it, what I'm told  
You can't stop it  
It just started  
I can't take it  
I won't cooperate  
Making arrangements to bury it in the ground  
I can't fake it  
This station  
Is going under, so I'll bury this in the ground  
-Dead Living by Sugarcult _

Imagine this:

You're a teenager, hardly in high school at the time, who considers themself more or less normal. You get good grades, have friends, and though your home life isn't the best or most conventional, you're considered by your friends to be a pretty good person.

See? Not that hard to picture.

Yet, every night, you suffer from nightmares. Horrible, bone-chilling nightmares that keep you up night and day from the memory of them. You've been losing sleep, losing concentration, slowly but surely, but you've yet to alert your family to the existence of these occurrences. It's best not to bother them. Your friends and peers have too many of their own issues to deal with to notice your problem, or how this loss of sleep is affecting your daily temperament. They figure it's just the stress of all the advanced courses you chose to take.

All day long, during school, during tests, and at all hours you are reminded of the things you've seen. The blood, so much blood. Dead are everywhere, fires are burning everything around you. People who seem to know you dying at the hands of people who consider you their ally. Some you can even recall killing without mercy.

This is a new you, in your dreams, a new version of your own soul you never thought could exist. Yet you feel it occasionally, as if the dream world is beginning to mix with reality. Afterwards, your memory blurs. Things start to disappear out of your mind, vague recollections of where you've been or what you've done, but you can't remember you doing them. It's like remembering what a character in a movie or a book you read has done.

Then you get the blackouts. Periods of time, starting out with about five minutes, where you can't remember anything you have done. It usually happens at school, during lessons, and you suppose the lack of sleep had finally gotten to you and you fell asleep.

That is, until your teacher mentions an answer you gave in class, compliments you on it. You assure her she must be mistaken; you don't even remember the question. She gives a strange look and says you should go to your next class.

The periods of time lengthen. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. An hour. Two hours. You wake up in varying places, from school, your home, to strange neighborhoods and stores all the way across town. Sometimes your clothes have changed, and people will look at you with something you can only describe as fear as you hurriedly leave as fast as you can. Your family doesn't notice you've been gone. They never do anymore, your father least of all. Sometimes your peers or sibling will ask you about where you've been, or comment on something you said, but you change the subject. Soon, your friends leave you alone, and some even seem wary of you.

Fear is the optimal word to describe what you are living in. The nightmares come all the time, and you can see the images every time you close your eyes. You start to come home immediately after school, knowing you can't risk anything happening. The fact that you would choose to come home so soon afterwards instead of being rid of your family for a few more hours makes them suspicious, but you don't care. You rush to your room and lock the doors and windows, as if that will keep you in if you black out again.

There's a mirror in your room, one you've avoided for the past month, too afraid of what you'll see. What would happen if you're greeted with your other side staring back at you? It's time to see, you decide, and prepare for the worst.

Your reflection shocks you, but not as badly as you'd expected. Your face is gaunter, pale, worried, and the eyes look a bit off. The only thing you notice, and it takes a moment to stand out, is that your hair looks different. Instead of the normal, lighter color, a deep, almost blackish brown is growing from the roots. There is a definite line where it started, and it's grown out so much that your hair is practically two different colors.

Someone pounds on your door, and you jump. Your brother calls your name through the wood, suspicious. You never lock your door. He asks if you're feeling okay. Though you know he's genuinely concerned, he won't understand, and he had his own problems to deal with. Plus, he'll just tell your father, who will most likely dump you off on some stranger for a few days who is supposed to be some expert that has the capacity to give a damn. Maybe he'll even send you off for good, and though you've secretly wanted it for years, you can't leave your brother and it'll just prove your father right that there really is something wrong with you. He's been looking for a reason to get rid of you for awhile.

Your gaze flickers back to the mirror, and this time you get the shock of your life. Your reflection is smiling at you, a friendly yet strangely threatening grin. You blink, thinking for sure that you must be imagining, but as you open your eyes, you see the person in the mirror doing the same. You try to back away, but your feet won't move, and the person in the mirror does nothing. It just stares at your face, studying, as if to say "You're it? You're what's been keeping me in so long?"

And then he smiles again, and it's only at that moment you realize you are, too, though you've never been more terrified in your entire life. Your eyes say "This is going to be easier than I thought."

Suddenly, your feet can move, and you run. Faster than you've ever run in your entire life. Past your father, who's at home from work for once in his life, past your brother, working on homework and calling your name. You ignore them, grabbing your jacket and sprinting outside into the rain, but not before stealing your father's gun he keeps for safety in his dresser.

It's pouring outside, but you don't care. Let the rain soak you; at least that's real. It's something you know is really there, that you can really feel. You keep going, your feet moving of their own accord, and can't stop. If you do, whatever you are will catch you. It will all finally get to you.

And just like all the children before you, you can feel it, eating away at your mind. You can see, for once, what you truly are, and it's something you never thought you could be.

You're not human.

Finally, you realize you've stopped. You're on the ground, your knees pulled up to your chest. You're shaking from head to toe, from a mixture of the cold and the fear.

If you're not human, what are you? You've read about things out there: aliens, witches, demons, all of the stories you've heard about but never thought could be you.

You don't see it coming. Usually it's like falling asleep, where you can feel the tingling, the pulling in the back of your mind trying to subdue your consciousness, but this time it comes without warning.

It's then you realize you've been welcomed to the hell of being one of the chosen.

* * *

There was so much blood. That was all he was aware of at the moment, all he had been aware of since he had regained his awareness, his head spinning out of control as his mind reeled to get its bearing. He had no idea what had happened to him or where he was. All that was brought to his attention was that somehow he was still moving, as unaware of it as he was. 

He was in some sort of haze, a blackened world where everything, every feeling or thought he had, melted away. It wasn't exactly a bad feeling, but he knew this couldn't be right. He couldn't speak, couldn't see, and couldn't seem to control how he moved. All he saw was a wall of red before him, and an endless maze beyond it.

There was no fear, wherever he was, but there was still a sense of unease. Something was wrong, severely so. He couldn't concentrate on anything but the blood.

Flashes were coming at him, images, thoughts, emotions, all random in intervals. The only constant in them was the blood, and a lot of it. He had no idea if it was his or someone (something) else's. There were hands soaked in it, dripping it onto the floor.

His hands. Not his blood.

Somehow, he was aware that time had passed, and he was aware of the fact that he was in the same place he had started at. The sun had set a long time ago, and it was still raining as hard as ever.

Emotions broke through. No, not emotions. Something different, something scarier. Deadlier. This was the absence of emotion, a cold, empty feeling he had never experienced in full but that definitely was familiar.

The blood washed off his hands with more ease than he would have expected with the rain, he saw, watching strangely like a spectator as he clumsily washed it off in the torrents of water. Looking down at himself, his eyes surveying the area against his will, he saw the rest of the red liquid staining his drenching wet blue t-shirt and khaki pants. A foreign thought reached out to him, a warning, as he fought weakly to see more clearly. Everything was still foggy, despair registering as he realized he had no control. Not anymore.

Someone called his name softly, and that was it. He must be going crazy. This can't be happening. It's all too much at once, and he was so tired. His head hurt, felt like it was about to split open, and the pressure that had been building for the last month had finally gotten to him. As the person who had called his name--his father, he realized--lowered himself into a crouching position next to him, he feel something break inside him. A sob built in his chest as he felt a brief moment where he was himself. His other side was pulling, fighting to take control again, and he knew he couldn't stop it.

He had to warn his father in some way, but he couldn't say anything. Something in his mind was impairing his ability to speak the words. Looking at the face of the man next to him, he had a pretty good idea John knew anyway.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, not able to get anything else out, and a sob forced its way out before it was stifled.

"For what?" his father asked, concerned and wary, but still not used to being supportive.

Tears were running down his face, his heart pounding harder than it ever had, but he still couldn't say it. His hand was itching towards his pocket already against his will, and try as he might he knew he couldn't stop what was about to happen. He closed his eyes for a second, hoping.

_Please_, he prayed, _let it be a dream. _

Through the terror, he registered some primal instinct, a sense he had yet to develop kicking in. His world was blackening, falling into the oblivion again. His move was forceful, and he felt more powerful than he ever had. More terrified, too. His strike was near deadly.

"I'm so sorry," he forced out through the tears on his face, and fear registered on his dad's face.

His world went black once more as the gunshot rang out.

* * *

He was dying. He had to be. All of this blood, the gunshots, the blackness, and the cold. There was no other explanation. His entire body was on fire, coursing with adrenaline, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer. This was too much for him to handle. Too much panic. 

He opened his eyes, taking a gasping breath that felt like someone was stabbing him through the heart. His entire body was shaking, trembling like leaf, his body reacting to the sudden change in power. He was in his own body again, and he had never felt anything more terrifying.

Someone was pulling him up, and he couldn't help them. The rain was pouring down his face, and his eyes were stinging from keeping them open, so he clenched them shut. His long legs were pulled clumsily up to his chest, though the man next to him was trying in vain to pull him up. He just pulled himself even closer to his father's chest, and, caught off guard, his father stiffened. Blood was leaking from his own wound, but he held on even tighter. He needed an anchor in reality. If he let go, whatever had taken over before would get him again.

He shivered again, and he felt himself pulled against the man's chest. His father didn't say anything immediately, and when he did, he couldn't listen. None of this was real. It couldn't be. He was dreaming. All of the memories that came flooding back, of what he had seen--what he had done--and he had never been more horrified in his entire life.

"Sammy?" John insisted, shaking his unresponsive son in an attempt to bring him back. "Is that you?"

Sam didn't answer. He didn't think he had the strength anymore. He was barely aware of taking in shallow breaths; he didn't feel the rain gushing over his face. He just buried his face into John's shirt, needing his father's support for once in his life. He had never looked to him for anything, but he felt like the only thing Sam had anymore. The only real thing in his world.

"I'm sorry," he gasped out, his voice shaking.

"It's alright, Sam," John insisted, wrapping his arms around his youngest son. Answering the unasked question, he said: "Dean's still at the house, worried."

"Don't..."

"I won't tell him, I promise."

"I'm so sorry," Sam repeated, and that seemed like the only thing he could say as John looked at his bloodied hands, rubbing at the caked on substance gingerly, as he saw how Sam flinched at the slightest touch. He pulled up Sam sleeve once more, and paused, staring at the mark on his arm. Through his blurred vision, Sam saw that it was black, a design that looked almost like a tattoo in quality.

"How long have you had this, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged; it was the best he could do. His stomach was churning, and he was freezing to his core. His teeth chattered and his whole body felt like jelly as he trembled. The truth was, he hadn't noticed the mark much before. It had never turned black before. Until then, it had been a strangely light reddish imprint, barely noticeable.

"Is that bad?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

John tensed beside him. Though he shook his head rather decidedly, his eyes weren't right.

"It's going to be alright, Sam," he muttered.

* * *

**22 Years Later**

Sam shot up from his seat in shock, waking immediately from his deep sleep. The Metallica on the radio halted as Dean turned the volume down.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam insisted, shaking it off. It had just been a bad dream, he told himself. "Just a nightmare," he muttered, almost to himself.

**SUPERNATURAL**

"Do you have any idea where we are whatsoever?" Sam asked. Dean had been circling around the gift area of the airport like a lost five year old for the past ten minutes, and Sam had been watching him with amusement until now. His watch said they had ten minutes before they were supposed to meet John at the security gate, twenty until the plane left.

"Of course I do," Dean snapped, checking the map once more. His nerves had been acting up ever since they stepped foot into the place. He kept glancing around at the people suspiciously, though they both knew there was only a small chance the demon would guess which airport they were at. Even so, Sam remained firm on the fact that they wouldn't be able to attack them in such a crowded place.

"Our tickets say we're going to be in Terminal R3, so I'm guessing we go that way," Sam said, tugging on Dean's jacket so he could lead his brother in the right direction. Dean looked a little more than offended that Sam had come up with the answer so fast, even more so when he realized Sam had been messing with him.

Sam's cell phone rang, setting off the buzzer and causing him to see once more that Dean had changed his ring tone, this time to Renegade by Styx. Sam rolled his eyes and flipped it open. "Yes?"

"Where the hell are you guys?" John's irritated voice said through the speaker.

"We're coming up the escalator right now, dad," Sam said, trying to ignore the painful flashbacks he was having to the dream he had just had. He tried to convince himself that he had experienced worse nightmares, ones that had actually been reality at one time, but the pit in his stomach wouldn't go away. "Where are _you_?"

"The dining area outside the Pizza Hut. You should be--oh, there you are." Sam and Dean had just rounded the corner with their bags. John came into view a few seconds later, standing to greet them. He smiled weakly, but it didn't look right, like he hadn't slept in awhile. He looked a few notches less horrible than Sam had been looking. "Hey," he said, gathering his own pack to meet them in the semi-crowded corridor.

Sam smiled nervously, recalling the last time he had spoken to his father, but it was Dean who was the worst out of the both of them. He had tensed next to Sam, and only then did Sam realize that flying wasn't the only reason he had been anxious that morning.

John clasped a hand on Sam's shoulder, smiling at his youngest son. "It's good to see you, Sammy," he said, and Sam didn't bother to correct him on the nickname. He just grinned back as best he could.

"You mean it's good to see me alive," he replied, and though it could have been perceived as a serious statement, it drew a rather tense chuckle from John.

"Well, that, too," he admitted, then turned to Dean, his smile fading. "How're you doing, Dean?" he asked in a more formal tone, though he looked more lenient than Dean did. His oldest son looked like he was facing down someone he had never expected to have to talk to ever again.

"I'm..." Dean said, keeping his eyes down grudgingly and shaking his head. "I'm doing fine, dad." He smirked without humor, and then shrugged. "So where are we headed?" he asked awkwardly in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"I got the best tickets I could get. I figure we head to upper France, maybe work our way up to England. It'll be hard to find us in a big city, so we head for London or Edinburgh and keep moving every few months or so."

Dean nodded indifferently, but it was hard not to notice Sam's obvious discomfort. He didn't like the idea of leaving, but acknowledged it was necessary. Still, it was difficult for him to accept that he was dragging John and Dean along on this chase. John knew his son would have preferred to go on the run alone, draw the demon away from his family, but Dean wouldn't leave him.

"Hey, Sam?" John said, cutting into the silence, and Sam's head snapped up, as did Dean's in reflex. "Can I talk to you for a second?" Dean raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but Sam nodded, motioning to Dean it was okay for him to back off.

"If you have anything to say to Sam--"

"Dean, it's okay," Sam insisted. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Alright," he said grudgingly. "I'll just go and...Get something to eat or get a magazine or whatever." He cast one more wary glance on his father and brother before striding off.

John gestured to his youngest son to follow him through the crowd, back to the table he'd been sitting at. The hallway traffic was increasing as he made his way through the crowd, and too often someone would jostle him. He fell into John as his father suddenly stopped, having been knocked sideways by a particularly busy man, who nearly fell into Sam as well. He hurried off, looking disoriented. As he had since Sam had first spotted him, John looked like he was suffering from a bad headache.

"Are you okay, dad?' Sam asked tentatively. It wouldn't be the first time he had worried for his father's health; Sam was surprised he hadn't given himself a heart attack before then.

"I'm fine," John insisted with a weak smile, seating himself at his table, away from the main crowd and farther into the corner. "Just stress...I guess I've been pretty worried about both of you."

"Us, too, trust me," Sam said, shaking his head at the memory. "I mean, a lot of shit has gone down in the last few weeks I can't even believe it myself."

"But you're doing alright, Sam?" John asked, looking at him with concern, and Sam put on his best convincing face.

"As alright as expected," he replied neutrally, uncomfortable. John had never been one for small talk. "Was this all you wanted to talk to me about? I'm pretty sure you could say this with Dean--"

"No, this isn't all," John said, still not dropping his strange tone. He looked down, almost embarrassed at having his behavior revealed. It was apparent something was bothering him, and he stared at his plate with a strange intensity, like he needed time to think about what he was about to say. "Let me see your arm, Sam."

Sam was caught off guard by the request--no, order. He raised an eyebrow in confusion. "You don't have to check. I swear I haven't tried to kill myself or anything." He was more than a little offended by John's apparent lack of trust towards his youngest son. "I wouldn't do that, and you know it." His tone came out sounding indignant and more than a little defensive.

"That's not why," John said calmly. "Just do it."

Still feeling startled by the sudden change of mood, Sam roughly pulled his sleeve up on his right arm to expose the scar he tried to rarely even look at or think about. He laid it on the table; scar up, for John to see. His father looked at it for a moment, and his gaze moved to Sam's face.

"This is the one the demon gave to you." It wasn't a question. Sam remained silent. "The one you've had since you were fifteen."

If Sam had been confused before, it was nothing compared to then.

"Sam..." John took a deep breath, meeting Sam's eyes. "There's something I have to tell you."

* * *

"Fuck," Dean muttered for the hundredth time, rushing through the crowd as fast as he could without looking conspicuously, trying to remember where he had to go to get back to Sam and John. 

He had just gone to get a magazine. A simple magazine, a stupid tabloid or some crap like that to get him through at least a half an hour of the eight he had to look forward to. He left his brother for one minute and look who showed up?

They had been so careful the past week and a half. They had stupidly thought they would be safe, that this would be the home stretch for them. But, no, instead it made them the perfect targets: unarmed and hopeful.

There were at least two of them, Dean figured. That was the number of black eyes he had seen glinting at him. He was hoping that he could blend into the teeming crowd somehow and had donned a hat he found on the ground, his jacket removed and in a trash can behind him, but still there they were. They all seemed to be moving at identical paces, but whereas Dean was trying to blend in, the other two, a guy and a girl, were shoving their way through the crowd to get at him.

It was time to step up the pace, and Dean broke into a run as soon as he reached a clear spot. Heads turned, and families dodged out of the way as the two demons broke out into a sprint as well. There were no security guards in sight, which Dean found a bad thing. If he or they were apprehended, he might have a chance to get to Sam.

But where the hell was his younger brother? He could be in any direction, and Dean internally kicked himself for falling right into their trap; they had been chasing him away from the safety of the group like wolves separating out a single animal from the pack so they could circle in for the kill.

Dean could play the game, and Sam could hold his own. He skidded around the corner, leaping over a bench and purposefully knocking a trash can over in the process. Only a few yards away was a door, and a sign said it led to the parking lot. At least that would give him the opportunity to get to the car and his weapons.

That is, unless they had gotten there first, he told himself.

The door burst open as he slammed into it, not bothering to slow his pace to open it. He skidded around the corner, nearly falling into the wall. Dean swung himself around the stair and leaped down them, but not before one of the demons caught up to him. He stumbled and both he and his attacker fell down the stairs.

* * *

"What are you trying to tell me?' Sam asked John, shocked. "You erased my memory because...what? I've been like this my whole life?' 

"You've had..." John searched for the right words to placate his son. "...episodes, before. You've always been different, Sammy. You never were one of us."

"One of us? And what exactly is 'one of us,' dad?" John took a deep breath as Sam's voice jumped an octave. "Human? I've never been human?"

"You were never normal, Sam. This demon has had a grip on you your whole life and you have to understand, I did what I had to do..."

"You took away part of my _life_."

"You wouldn't have been able to handle it at that age."

"I had a right to the truth," Sam spat. "I had a right to know."

"Even if it meant handing you over to people who would kill you?"

"God, could you_ be_ any more confusing?" Sam said angrily, gritting his teeth.

"The other hunters would have killed you if they found out what you were," John said urgently. "We have been on the brink of war since before you were born. They won't take any risks in getting a traitor among them, anyone that could turn spy." Sam didn't answer. "Sam...Sammy, please." John reached out to touch his son's arm, and Sam flinched back, much to John's dismay.

And then Sam's phone rang.

"I have to take this," Sam said quietly, figuring it was Dean. He turned around briefly. "Yeah," he said into his phone.

"Sam," Dean said, and Sam could pick up immediately that something was wrong.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"Listen to me, Sam," Dean said, his voice practically a whisper. "Is dad there? Yes or no question."

"Yes," Sam answered apprehensively. "What's--" He had been about to say 'What's wrong?' but Dean cut him off.

"Stop," he snapped in a hiss. "Nothing's wrong, okay? Don't say anything. Pretend I'm asking you about what magazine to buy."

"What magazines do they have there?" Sam asked, playing along, though he didn't get the drift. He hoped Dean got what he was asking.

"Demons. They tracked me down." Sam's stomach felt like the bottom had just opened up and dropped all its contents out.

"What...What store are you at?" His voice was shaking, and John was beginning to look at him strange. He had no idea why he was hiding it from his father, but he was sure Dean knew exactly what he was talking about.

"I managed to ditch them, but I know they're going to find me soon. I'm in the elevator heading up. They got to the car; it's gone. They were shooting at me a few seconds ago, but I didn't feel anything. I'm going to try to get up to you, but I need you to do something."

"Nicole Richie did _what_?" Sam said in affirmative.

"Get out of there," Dean said, his voice deadly serious. "Now. As fast as you can. Say I need help with the bags, I'm too afraid to go on the plane, I don't care. Just get out of there, alone, and don't make a scene."

"What's wrong with Angelina's baby?" He could practically see Dean rolling his eyes.

"Don't. Let. Dad. Know." He said it like he was talking to a first grader.

"What did she do?" Frustrated, on the other end of the line Dean hit the wall

"Look, Sam, they mentioned that you were in danger."

"I'm sure the baby will make it, Dean," Sam insisted.

"It's dad, Sam," Dean hissed. "The demon is dad. He got to him in the hallway."

Sam almost dropped the phone in shock. "What?"

"Get out of there, Sam. It's a trap. Just do what I...what I...what..."

"Dean?" Sam said, concerned and dropping all pretenses. The panic was welling up inside him.

"I'm...bleeding." Dean's voice was weak, and his gasping was heard through the phone. "I didn't...notice it."

"Dean, hold on."

The phone went dead.

Horrified, Sam tried to get up. He had already blown the cover, but he didn't care anymore. Dean was in trouble, possibly bleeding to death in an elevator, and he couldn't just sit there.

A hand grasped his wrist before he could go anywhere, his iron grip tightening to the point where Sam was sure the blood flow must have stopped.

"Going somewhere, Sammy?" John asked, and when Sam turned back, he found himself looking at his father.

His eyes glowed yellow.

**A/N: Cliffie! Thanks for reading, guys! Sorry if that change in perspective at the beginning was confusing, from the first person to third person, but I wanted it to switch and couldn't think of a better way to do it.**

**I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. I'm going crazy here. School is piling up, I'm sick, and my friend is driving me nuts. She keeps getting mad at me, and that on top of eveything else has me feeling not so well mentally/physically, so sorry if the next chapter takes awhile. Once more, thanks for reading, and please review.**


	64. The Beginning of the End

**Chapter 64: The Beginning of the End**

**A/N: Both songs used in this chapter are really songs that set up the mood for the chapters to come, especially the part of the song used at the end, Mama by My Chemical Romance. (Yes, I'm obsessed with them, but it fits.)**

_I've drawn regret,  
From the truth,  
Of a thousand lies.  
So let mercy come,  
And wash away…  
What I've Done.  
__-What I've Done by Linkin Park_

"Going somewhere, Sammy?" the demon said, and Sam froze. The demon smiled at Sam's expression, a satisfied twinkling in his eyes, which had turned back to yellow; he couldn't risk being spotted in his true form now. "Man, if you could see you face right now."

"If you've hurt him..." Sam said in a snarl.

"Oh, I'll do much more than just hurt him," the demon said, his voice a calm, lighthearted drawl. The smile still hadn't left his face. "Let's see, since the bullet went straight through his stomach, that means those vital organs are shutting down right about...now. If it hit an artery, that means he's bleeding pretty badly, doesn't it? I give him about...five minutes, from the extent of the injury he sustained, and he didn't even notice. Of course, that's what happens sometimes. The body goes into shock and you don't realize until it's too late--"

"If you let him die, I swear to you--"

"You'll what? Kill me?" A chuckle escaped his lips. "With what?" he hissed teasingly. "I have all the power." He seemed to enjoy the tortured look on the younger man's face. "We need to talk, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"It's whatever I want it to be," the demon hissed. "Get up," he ordered, his grip not loosening on Sam's wrist as he stood, yanking Sam with him. Sam tried to jerk away, but the grasp on his wrist only tightened until it reached almost the breaking point.

"Let's get one thing straight," the demon said in a snarl. "You so much as breathe wrong, I leave Dean to bleed to death in that stupid little elevator, dump his body into the river, and give him an escort down to Hell, where I will _personally_ assure he burns for all eternity. _Do you understand me?"_

Jaw clenched, Sam nodded, afraid to open his mouth and risk throwing up over everyone. The demon released his hold on Sam's arm, sure to have left bruises, but Sam had soon forgotten the pain. It wasn't exactly the worst thing he could have done. Every instinct was screaming for him to run, but every time he even considered it, he felt the demon's influence in his mind, forcing the image of Dean's dead body into it. He had already seen that pale face too many times.

People parted out of the demon's way with ease, without even seeming to notice it. It was like he wasn't even there, but Sam wasn't surprised. He knew the powers the demon had over people's minds. The oblivious ones would see what he wanted them to see.

It was only then Sam saw what they were headed for, and he furrowed his brow. The monorails were totally abandoned for once, all people exiting and entering filing quickly away from them. Sam had no doubt he and the demon would be the only ones on the train.

He was shoved roughy through the doors before they closed on him, and the demon stopped them a second before they did with an outstretched hand so he could enter. The doors slid shut and the monorail started.

"Well, here we are, Sam..." the demon said quietly, turning to the youngest Winchester. "Just you and me. Like old times, right?"

"Fuck you," Sam spat.

"Now, Sam, I don't think that's the way to address the man who has your brother's life in his hands. Or yours, for that matter." He strode forward, and Sam backed up reflexively, though he was stopped after one step by an invisible force that kept him in place. "You know, you would think this whole experience would have made you stronger," the demon muttered, only a matter of a foot or so away from Sam now. "But you're just as weak as you started out as." He shook his head. "And yet you still managed to pull all this shit."

Sam should have seen it coming. He had been expecting it since the minute they stepped on the vehicle, but he still gasped out in pain as the demon lashed out at him. The stroke of his hand sent the invisible claws through the air at him with unbelievable strength, and he flew back into the handrail and slid to the ground. Pain racked through him that he was all too familiar with.

It hadn't hit any main organs. In fact, the demon seemed to be showing some restraint. The blow had only gotten part of his torso and the left side of his face, the blood running freely down the side of his cheek and to his neck.

"Do you realize what you've done?" the demon muttered, leaning down to be level with Sam as he was doubled over in pain. "You know what we do to traitors, what we do to people like you. This won't be quick, I can promise you that, for _either_ of you two. Especially him. I swear to you, I will tear him apart from the inside out, and I will stretch it out as long as humanly possible. He will feel that pain for as long as his pathetic soul can take it. And you will watch _every second_ of it. You will feel both your pain and his; I will make sure of that myself. Maybe you'll think of him before you betray us again, let him serve as a warning."

The demon grasped a good part of his hair and slammed his head against the wall of the tram. Sam was sure he heard something crack, whether it was the glass of the window or something in his body he couldn't tell. Sam forced his head up, trying to keep a calm composure, but searching for some way out. The monorail had slowed to a stop, but no one got on; they didn't even seem to notice it had gotten there or that there was anyone nearby.

"Was it all a lie?" Sam gasped. "What you told me, about my childhood? How I was different?"

"You've always been one of us," the demon agreed, a finger tracing the design on Sam's arm. "You've had the mark since you were fifteen, but you only accepted it recently." He grinned wickedly. "Another reason I took over your father's body in partcular. That son of a bitch was hiding you from me all these years. Must have known I mark all the kids who have potential, but only some take. He knew you weren't the one I expected." His grin widened. "Not at all. You were just a precaution. Dean was the one I was after; he was the one I was sure would be the one out of the two of you to manifest. He had that...special way about him. You were..." he searched for the right word. "Normal."

Sam tried to pull away, but once more, the invisible wall stopped him. The demon kept looking at the mark. "John managed to hide what you were from everyone, even yourself. I never expected anything. All those years of watching Dean, waiting for it, and you were right there, under our noses, the connection growing between you and I already. Of course he couldn't tell anyone; the other hunters would have taken you away from him. So sentimental, and he doesn't even show it..." He laughed briefly. "He never told you why he wouldn't let you do anything. He was so insistent on keeping you in the dark that you ran away to college to escape what you thought was hatred. But, in fact, everything he did was for you."

"Is there a point to this?" Sam said calmly, and the demon knew he had hit a bullseye. He pressed down on Sam's mark. Immediately, the scar began to burn like it was on fire.

"You are one of us, Sam," the demon said. "You made a vow to me. Do you like it when people break promises?" Sam glared, remembering his personal experiences with him. The demon seemed to pick up on this wave of hatred and it only seemed to make him stronger. "Neither do I. Which is why you're coming with me today."

"You can just kill me," Sam said angrily. The demon rolled his eyes as he stood.

"Stop trying to be the hero," he said. "It doesn't fit you. Get up." He gripped Sam's upper arm and yanked him up. Sam felt the grip change, and then it felt like long fingernails were tearing into his skin as they gripped tighter. He kept a calm composure as the doors slid open. The demon immediately rushed him across to the other side, his grip tightening, and Sam pushed him. Though he had meant it to be a physical shove, before he got to the actual movement, the demon fell to the side like an invisible force had moved him.

"Move," the demon said, his voice deadly. Sam's mind was racing. If he could do that, couldn't he do something else? He had been working on control again, but it had never worked like he had wanted it to.

All of those thought flooded out of his head when he saw what awaited him in the other monorail.

"Dean," he breathed, terror coursing through him.

"Yes, Dean," the demon said in a bored voice. "Nice to see you again, by the way. I see you're not bleeding all over anymore."

It was true. Though the blood stains remained on his shirt, Sam's stomach knotting as he saw how bad it must have been, there were no signs of new bleeding. He was still pale and slumped over a bit, out of breath, but he was alive. His look was one of dismay as he saw they had gotten Sam as well. He made to move forward, but the male demon Sam had never met reminded Dean of the knife held steady at his jugular. His hands were drawn behind him tightly, and his tense jaw told Sam he hadn't said a word yet. Sam saw a glint of something at the demon's belt when he turned, and wtih a jolt realized he had the Colt.

"I would shoot you the middle finger, but as you see..." Dean nodded to his wrists.

"I get the sentiment, thank you," the demon said. "Always the smartass. But as you can see, we have our own things to wrap up, and I don't see any problems right about now."

This was the chance he needed. The demon was turned to Dean at the moment, the gun wide open. The promise of this all being over was whispering in the back of his head.

The demon seemed to realize what he was doing a second before Sam did it. But instead of stopping Sam from taking the gun, he tried a different approach. He threw his arm out just as Sam pulled the gun out of the demon's pocket.

Dean's eye caught Sam's for a split second, and Sam used the time as best he could to show Dean it was going to be alright. And then Dean gasped as he was sent flying against the wall. Just as Sam aimed the gun at the demon's head, the outstretched hand curled into a fist, and Dean stopped breathing, his windpipe crushed by an invisible force.

"If you don't let him go, I'll shoot," Sam threatened.

"And if you shoot, he dies," the demon threw back with equal venom. Sam cocked the gun. Dean tried in vain to take a breath, and only managed a wheezing cough. It was apparent that wasn't the only thing that was being done, as a trickle of new blood was joining the old, half-dried mess.

"I'm keeping him alive, Sam," the demon said, unnerved by the gun pointing at him. Sam forced himself not to look at the choking Dean. "Do you want to know what will happen if you shoot? Not only will you be killed immediately, but before I die, I have enough time to do one last thing." His hand lowered until he was pointing, his fingers outstretched like it had looked before he had choked Dean, at Dean's chest. Dean still wasn't getting enough air. "I make one move with this hand, and his heart stops. It only takes a second; he'll be dead before he hits the ground."

Sam remained silent, weighing the risks. The demon had bluffed before, and if he was right about this and gave up, he had surrendered his and Dean's lives for nothing.

"You'll kill us anyway," Sam insisted. "Why not end it right now?"

"Because you're not that guy," the demon answered simply. "You're the one that will hold on to the last shred of hope until there are no other options. You still have hope; you could escape. You're not willing to let yourself die, not now." The words rang truth, but still Sam wouldn't surrender.

"He's running out of time, Sammy," the demon said, and Sam coudn't help noticing Dean wouldn't last much longer.

"Alright," Sam said loudly, throwing the gun down. The demon smiled as he walked towards Sam. The male demon caught Dean as he fell to the ground, gasping wildly for air. He was already reaching for something in his pocket, and it was then that he realized what was going on.

"You wouldn't dare--" he snarled at the demon, and the icy look returned to his face.

"I thought the Winchester brothers stuck together through and through?" he said mockingly. "Where one goes, the other goes."

"Not like this..."

"You can work together again."

"No!"

It was too late. The demon had put up a field so he couldn't get to Dean, though he struggled against it. The other male demon was already injecting Dean with the same thing they had given Sam. Sam felt a whole new adrenaline pumping through him.

"He's not like me," Sam insisted. "He won't survive it."

"He might, he might not," the demon said in a bored voice. "I figure fifty-fifty chance. Fifty percent chance we get another good fighter on our side."

Sam had to close his eyes as Dean began to feel the effects. He remembered only too well the first time he had felt it. It was like ice-cold liquid was running through his veins. Then the blackness, and all the pain that came with it.

Dean wasn't like him. He never would be. He wouldn't survive what they would put him through. He couldn't be turned. He was human, and the methods used on Sam wouldn't work on a normal person.

The demon strode towards him, seeming to find some joy in the pained look on Sam's face as Dean went, if possible, paler than he had.

Sam was thrown backwards as the demon threw a hand out, hitting the wall with bone-crushing force. He felt his rib crack, and the sudden wetness in his hair told him he was bleeding.

Then there was a hand on his forehead, and he turned his head, but it wasn't enough. He still felt the demon's prying prescence in his mind, a sensation he hadn't felt for months. Icy cold tendrils were reaching into his brain, forcing his consciousness back. His entire body shivered as the cold spread, giving him the feeling that the very blood in his veins was freezing. He shuddered again as he realized this was the exact same thing Dean was going through.

The yellow eyes were there in front of him, forcing him to keep looking into them.

"I think everything is going to turn out just fine, Sammy," the demon said with a smirk.

_"I'm so sorry, Dean,"_ was his last thought._ "I'm sorry for doing this to you."_

That was the last thing Sam remembered before the world went black.

_We're damned after all  
Through fortune and flame we fall  
And if you can stay then I'll show you the way to return from the ashes you call... _

We all carry on  
When our brothers in arms are gone  
So raise your glass high  
For tomorrow we die  
And return from the ashes you call...

-Mama by My Chemical Romance

**A/N: So there it is. I decided to post it early cuz I was in the writing mood and finished it early. I had a lot of incentive, after certain people went as far as to say they would hunt me down and tape me to the chair so I would write more (you know who you are). ****I haven't even started on the next chapter, and once more, it could come out early, or it could take awhile for me to finish, it really just depends.**

**Up Next: You didn't really think I was going to tell you that, did you? But as the chapter title says, this really is the beginning of the end.**

**Until Next time...REVIEW!**


	65. Just Like You

**Chapter 65: Just Another Demon**

_I'm gonna make you bend and break (it sent you to me without wings)  
Say a prayer, but let the good times roll  
In case God doesn't show (let the good times roll, let the good times roll)  
And I want these words to make things right  
But it's the wrongs that make the words come to life  
Who does he think he is?  
If that's the worst you've got, better put your fingers back to the keys  
-Thanks for the Memories by Fall Out Boy _

Dean Winchester had always welcomed any chance he got to sleep, mostly because he got so little of it. With his 'career path' there wasn't much time for such luxuries. Well, that, and the fact that the spirits and monsters he hunted tended to have a preferred timetable that leaned towards the wee hours of the night. Most of his sleep occurred during the day, and even then, a few hours now and then were the best he got.

He sometimes felt like he must be turning into some sort of vampire; his vision was even starting to adapt to night better than to day, and he found himself squinting in bright light now and then. The longing for a normal schedule had faded into the back of his priorities.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say this was the best sleep he'd had in months. All of his normal problems, along with Sam's night terrors and the constant stress he was in, had added up over the weeks. For a few precious minutes where he was still oblivious, he was content to drift back into unconsciousness.

And then he remembered how he had been knocked out with a jolt that felt similar to an electric shock. His limbs were still shaking from the aftereffects.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment he had lost consciousness. The last thing he remembered consciously was the icy feeling in his veins, creeping into his brain. The second he had felt the hand on his forehead, it felt like every finger had sent a rusty nail right through his skull to his brain. The sensation had spread to his veins, and from there throughout his body. And then, at some point, after several minutes of growing agony, he had blacked out.

After that, it hadn't been peaceful sleeping as Dean had first recalled it to be. He couldn't remember details, but there had been fire. So much fire. His father had been there, and so had Sam. Yet as hard as he tried, he couldn't remember specifics.

Dean was almost afraid to open his eyes. Some part of him was terrified to see where he was. He wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting in the first place; human skulls, blood-coated walls, the classic must-haves for demon's lairs.

There was none of it, though. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he was staying in a hotel room, albeit_ very_ second-hand. At least he was lying in a bed of some sorts, and there was no sign of any dungeon-ish qualities about it.

Glancing down at his arm, Dean saw the light bandages around his right arm, no sign of blood soaking through. Peeling them off, he saw the source. Marks from unknown sources were all over his forearm, most likely from needles giving him whatever drug they had used to keep him unconscious.

Then he saw his right arm, and his heart nearly skipped a beat. The mark on it was unmistakable; it was the exact same symbol Sam had etched on his arm, though instead of the dark red quality Sam's had developed into in the past few months, this was faded, barely visible to anyone who hadn't been looking for it. The lines were in a light pink color of new flesh, raised slightly like a scar would. Dean pulled his sleeve down so he wouldn't have to look at it.

Knowing it was a bad idea from the start, Dean pushed himself off the bed into a standing position. Predictably, it it didn't end well, as his world tipped to the side the second he righted himself, and he fell into the bed frame with a non-graceful lurch. His head was killing him, and his hands were shaking worse than ever. Reaching up to feel his forehead, he realized he had a fever.

Resigning himself temporarily, he pulled himself up and let his head fall back into the mildly comfortable pillows of the decent sized bed he was in, studying the room. The walls were in a dark blue color, faded wallpaper cracking in various places. The lone window in the corner was black out much like the one at the house Sam had been taken to before. In fact, the entire room looked similar to the other one. It wasn't horrible looking; there was a door leading to a small, decrepit bathroom and a closet in the corner. Dean thought those unnecessary components must have been because he couldn't be put in any other room rather than the demon taking pity on him.

Dean's stomach twisted violently, total fear coming into effect. He and Sam had come so close to getting away, and they blew it. After getting through poison, depression, explosions, hypothermia, drowning, police, and everything else, they still ended up here because they split up for one stupid second in an airport. Because he had been such an idiot, Sam was suffering. He should have known to trust his instincts and not leave Sam alone for one second, but he had never expected his own father to be possessed.

Dean clenched his fists in fury directed everywhere. At himself, at the demon, at John, at everything. He couldn't bear to think where Sam was, or, the little voice inside his head told him, if either of them would be alive tomorrow. Obviously, there had to be a reason he was still alive, and looking back on it, he had probably pulled enough shit over on the demon to make the thing want his death to be long and painful.

And then there was Sam, the recurring theme. Dean was beginning to wonder if he'd ever see Sam again, ever get a chance to try to save his younger brother. The door had been replaced with a material that looked a lot tougher than wood, and was most likely padlocked from the outside. The window was bolted shut. There was no way he could see of getting out any time soon, and despair was creeping into his mind.

He had never wanted to see Sam more. Not even when he had gone missing the first time. It was worse than that, maybe because he now had some idea of what Sam was going through. He remembered all too well what they had done to him on the train; his own mind was probably on the verge of being fucked up too, if the scar on his left arm was any indication. He could end up not even human.

Just another demon. Just like Sam, just like Nora.

Just as the thought passed through his mind, he shot up from his position on the bed (bad idea) at the sound of the door clicked open.

"Speak of the devil," he hissed, and his visitor merely smiled.

"Nice to see you, Dean," Nora said.

"Go outside and play hide and go fuck yourself," Dean spat.

"I see you haven't changed a bit." She shrugged as the door shut behind her. "You know, you're really boring when you're comatose. I was actually beginning to miss that smartass smile. Believe me, so is Sam." Her grin widened, knowing she would hit a nerve with that one. "Four days here tends to seem like a month, trust me," she said in a mock-assuring voice.

"You had better not have hurt him," Dean snarled.

"Not my area, Dean," she said simply, pulling up a chair and sitting causally, leaning forward towards him. "I've barely even seen him. None of us have." Nora shrugged again. "I was just coming to check on you. You know, making sure you're alive and all that shit. After all the crap we put in your system the past few days, it's good to have a few precautions. I'm still surprised you didn't wake up partially schizophrenic. That tends to be what happens to most of our first timers."

"Spare me the lecture, would you?" Dean threw back. He'd had enough monologuing from demons and ghosts to last him a lifetime. "Just tell me about Sam." It came out sounding less like a request and more like a command, and Nora raised an eyebrow in surprise at his tone.

"Maybe I won't tell you what I came here to say," she said, a twinkle sparking in her eyes. That could only mean one thing; she was about to make him an offer.

"What?" Dean asked tentatively, but Nora just smiled sweetly.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" She shook her head. "Maybe tomorrow. Until then..."

'What? That was quick. Sure you don't want to insult me one more time, throw my failure in my face?"

Nora didn't respond. Her next action only made Dean more confused. She leaned over Dean's bed and pounded on the wall behind it, as if she was checking for something. She turned to Dean and raised an eyebrow teasingly.

"You'll figure it out, I'm sure," she assured him and turned to open the door. It shut with a click behind her, and the grating sound of the lock was unmistakable.

Dean's gaze wandered to the place where Nora knocked, knowing the message was obvious. His instincts knew exactly what it was. The question was, did he want to know?

Tentatively, he sat cross-legged on the mattress, his stomach in knots. Reaching a hand up to the wall, he placed his right palm against the peeling wallpaper, and lifted his right simultaneously. He then knocked just as Nora had, only softer, hesitantly.

Nothing. No response from the other side. Then again, if Nora had gotten the same result, he should have known what was going to happen. There was only one more option, and he knew he could quite possibly regret it if he was wrong.

Feeling like a total idiot, the pit in his stomach growing, he leaned forward to the wall. He pressed his forehead to the cool material and spoke.

"Sammy?" he said, his voice a normal level. He pressed his ear against the wall, waiting for any sign.

It didn't come at first. Dean listened as hard as he could, but there was nothing. Silence.

And then, he heard something move. It sounded like a chair scraping the ground or a bed spring squeaking; Dean couldn't tell the difference through the wall. Then there was another sound a soft rapping against the other side of the wall.

"Sam?" Dean repeated anxiously.

A muffled sound came from the other side. It sounded like speech, but it was too muddled.

"I can't hear you," Dean said louder.

"Dean?" an incredulous voice came from the other side, and Dean let out a deep breath, his body un-tensing for a split second.

"Yeah, Sam, it's me," he assured.

"You're awake?" The voice was tired, strained, and it held none of the relief Dean felt. Sam sounded more reserved than usual, and his tone made it seem like he was grimacing, or suffering from a severe migraine.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Sleeping Beauty, I know." Sam didn't laugh. "Are you alright?" Dean asked, concerned. "Did they hurt you?"

"No, they threw me a coming-home surprise party," Sam threw back sourly. Dean knew the anger wasn't directed at him. Instead of provoking him, like the tone usually would, Dean felt his heart sink. As angry as Sam seemed in that instant, Dean knew what he was hiding. The only person who was more crushed by this than Dean was bound to be Sam. If Dean hadn't gotten caught, if the demon hadn't threatened to kill him, Sam would have been able to shoot the bastard between the eyes and gotten this all over with. It had been another crushing blow too many, and the desperation in Sam's voice was painful to hear.

"We're going to get out of here," Dean said in the best comforting voice he could muster. "I promise. Just hold it together until then, okay?" Dean knew the answer already.

"Okay, Dean," Sam said. Years of experience in his job told Dean what was really behind the statement.

Sam wasn't convinced.

**A/N: Sorry if this seems rushed or whatever, but it was a bitch to write, trust me. Ugh. It's been so freaking BUSY lately! Everything is just...ugh! Sorry, can you tell I'm not in the best mood? Please review.**

**Until next time...**


	66. Is There Anything I Can Do?

**Chapter 66: Is There Anything I Can Do?**

_Make your choice  
They say you've been pleading  
Someone save us  
-Heaven Help Us by My Chemical Romance_

Time moved slower here, Dean began to notice. No, not_ literally_, but in the crappy, 'stuck-in-a-history-class-lecture-staring-at-the-clock-and-waiting-for-the-bell-to-ring' way. Only ten thousand times worse.

Dean tried as best as he could to keep up the contact between himself and Sam. His brother remained grounded and responded every time Dean asked him a question or made a comment he had to throw something back with, but not much more than that. Dean felt the despair creeping through the wall to him, and he was almost pissed at Sam by the time the first twenty-four hours were over.

Dean wanted to see Sam, face to face. He had to. This was torture, the worst kind, keeping him so close to Sam but so far. If worst came to worst, if Sam fell down the same slope he had before when he had been in this situation, there was nothing Dean could do. And god dammit, he needed to see if Sam was hurt. It was apparent in Sam's strained voice that he was in some type of pain, and Dean needed to see just exactly how badly he had to kick all the demons' asses for this.

Sam didn't sleep. Even if Dean hadn't been there, he knew Sam wouldn't sleep. And concequently, neither did Dean. He stayed up all night with his youger brother, just wanting to hear a familiar voice. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep anyway.

And so it went, with Dean doing most of the talking, the topics ranging from old movies or shows he'd seen lately, to good times they'd had in high school, or even fights they'd had that seemed pointless now. Everything that had ever disrupted their relationship before melted away with the situation. Sam needed Dean, and dammit if Dean didn't need Sam.

And then he was gone. Dean hadn't seen it coming, and there was nothing he could have done to stop them short from knocking the wall in, and he's tried that. So far, all he'd been able to do was get about halfway through to the partially hollow part. It made both the brothers able to hear the other better than before. Dean gave it another hard kick as he heard the door to Sam's room open, the bottom of his stomach dropping out as he heard them take Sam away to god knows where to do god knows what.

That was when the real panic began to set in. Before it had been different; Sam had just been in the next room. Hurting, Dean was sure, but safe for the moment. But if they had moved him, then any chance of their reuniting was gone. The sudden terror that maybe that time they'd been given was supposed to be a goodbye, a farewell Sam was too afraid to tell Dean about. Either that, or they were taking Sam to the demon personally.

Dean couldn't decide which was worse, and he buried his face in his hands, pulling his knees up to his chest. He'd never been a person to feel hopeless, to just give up. He'd always been the one to take charge of a situation, to know exactly what needed to be done and how to do it. But now there was nothing. No hope. No John. No Sam. Nothing. Just silence, and waiting. He had only ever felt this hopeless once before, and that had been when Sam was bleeding to death in his arms. The familiar ache in his chest, and the rushing sound of the blood flowing through his veins that couldn't be good for his mental health.

Sam was gone for three hours. Three full hours of torture for Dean, and, the voice in the back of his head whispered, most likely for Sam, too. He felt the nagging sensation in the back of his mind just as he had when Sam had first gone missing. He remembered Missouri's words, how when Sam needed help he would reach out to those closest. He needed Dean, and there was nothing the oldest Winchester brother could do to help him.

Dean was stopped in that train of thoughts as the door slammed open and shut in what seemed like a matter of seconds. And in that amount of time, a single person was shoved into the room with Dean.

"Sam?" Dean breathed in shock, a smile reflexively making its way onto his face. He practically leapt from the bed, and Sam's head came up, their eyes meeting.

Surprisingly, there were no signs of serious injuries on Sam. None at all, in fact. No blood, no bruising, nothing Dean could see. The only noticable difference was in his eyes, the pale color of his skin, and the shaking of his hands.

Without a word, Sam pushed his way past Dean towards the tiny bathroom. Dean tried to keep up with him, but Sam seemed to be in a hurry. It was only a matter of seconds before Dean recognized the sound coming from ther bathroom. He was all too familiar with the gagging noise from all the times Sam had experienced bad hangovers.

After about a minute, it subsided, and Dean cracked open the door warily, afraid for Sam's sensitive state. He didn't know what would upset him or make things worse, if physical touch would hurt him, or if he even wanted to_ be_ there with Dean.

"Sammy?" Dean asked in the softest voice he could conjure up. Sam pushed himself shakily to his feet, turning on the tap water without a word and splashing his face with cold water. Dean stepped forward. "Are you alright?"

Sam paused for a second, staring at the wall like he had heard Dean for the first time. He seemed to be considering the question a lot more than called for.

"No," he finally answered simply, running a hand over his face. Every inch of his skin was so white Dean could see the veins in his hands popping through. The transparecy coupled with the grave look and dark circles under his eyes made him look like a vampire. No, worse. He looked, in all senses of the word, dead. "Can you help me out, here? I don't really think I can..."

"Sure," Dean assured him, wrapping an arm around his brother's waist gingerly. He gently pulled Sam along and sat him on the edge of the bed. "No more nausea? Because if you don't mind, I'd like a little warning if I'm going to get puked on."

Sam nodded. He didn't even acknowledge that was supposed to be a joke, as lame as it was. He didn't seem to have heard anything Dean said.

"It's good to see you again," Dean admitted in an attempt to get a reaction out of Sam.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, nodding much longer than necessary. After about ten seconds, the nodding subsided into the same sort of trembling his hands showed. Dean pushed him back, forcing him to lean back against the one pillow he had. Sam cringed as Dean's hand touched him, as if he had been taken by surprise, but saw it was Dean's hand and let Dean guide him back. If he had thought the reclined position would help Sam out, he was wrong. Sam's body was so tense he looked even more uncomfortable.

"Is there..." Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, not used to this. Sam met his eyes, and suddenly everything changed. All those months where Sam had acted strong, like nothing bothered him, melted away. It all came pouring out now, and suddenly Dean wasn't looking into his brother's eyes. He was looking into the eyes of every ghost he had ever faced, every helpless spirit left alone in its own personal hell. And, at the same time, he was still looking into Sam's eyes, only much younger. So much younger, only a child by most standards, scared out of its wits and latching onto any person they trusted with everything they had left. "Is there anything I can do?" Dean finished, his voice much softer than he had intended it to be.

Sam studied him for a moment, staring into his eyes, alert yet numb. The piercing gaze had dulled, but the feeling he was looking right into your mind was as sharp as ever. Dean wasn't ready to break the contact, though. He couldn't break away from Sam like that, so he let his brother stare, perfectly aware of what Sam was doing. There was no doubt in his mind anymore of Sam's abilities; Sam knew exactly what Dean was thinking, and Dean let him.

"Just...keep talking," Sam said finally, pulling away. "Please. We only have about three hours before they come back. I'll be back, though." His tone was rushed, businesslike. There was no emotion anymore, only exhaustion.

Dean seated himself down, his head by the foot of the bed, opposite Sam so they could both fit. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked simply, keeping his tone casual, like they had just gotten back from a bar where they had been celebrating a successful hunt.

"Anything. It doesn't matter," Sam said quietly.

"Ok, then."

* * *

_Help this old hotel  
But can't tell if I've been breathing,  
Or sleeping,  
Or screaming,  
Or waiting for the man to call  
And maybe all of the above  
Cause mostly I've been sprawled on these cathedral steps  
While spitting out the blood and screaming  
Someone save us_

* * *

Food came about an hour later. Sam didn't move so much as an inch when the door opened, but Dean watched intently, studying their system to see if there were any flaws. One mistake on their part, one gap in their logic, and it could mean escape for both him and Sam. 

It wasn't much. Rougly made sandwiches that were obviously concocted by someone who was used to ordering takeout, but food nonetheless. No reaction from Sam, as usual. In the time they'd had, Dean had begun to see the pattern. Sam would only speak when spoken to, and in as few words as possible. When Dean offered him a sandwich, he refused.

"I'm fine," he muttered, looking away as if the mere sight of it revolted him.

"You do know starvation is most likely the longest way to kill yourself, right?" Dean said.

"I know," Sam said.

"Are you alright?" Dean asked for what seemed like the four-hundredth time.

"No," Sam answered, his tone unchanging.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"No." Dean remained quiet for a second, seaching Sam's face in hope it would click like it did for Sam all the time. Surprisingly, it worked.

"Do you feel guilty about this?' he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Sam answered unhesitantly.

"Don't," Dean said forcefully. "This isn't your fault."

"Bullshit."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Are you ever going to answer me in a full sentence?"

"No."

"It'll help," Dean insisted.

"Maybe."

"You can get through this. I trust you. I know you can."

"I can't," Sam said, his voice cracking slightly, therefore giving Dean some small sense of triumph that he had gotten some sort of emotion out of his younger brother.

"Now you're just trying to annoy me," Dean threw at him.

"Fine," Sam said, almost defensively, but with the same tone that he was too tired to care.

"We're going to get through this."

"No, we're not," Sam said.

"Listen to me--"

"It's over, man," Sam threw back, cutting him off. "We both know it. We fucked up, okay? And if we haven't gotten out by now, we're not going to. It's too late. It's over."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Dean said, angry. "It is never too late. You're here, I'm here. We're together. We're a team; we've been through so much shit in our life and you're going to let this beat us?"

"And what if I am?" Sam snapped. Dean's eyes met Sam's, and Sam didn't seem to notice the shocked expression on his older brother's face. Just as quick as his gaze was there, it moved to the door, which was opening.

"Then you're just going to be one of them," Dean answered quietly. "It's your choice."

Little did he know, when Sam returned an hour later, he had made his choice.

* * *

_Cause I'll give you all the nails you need  
Cover me in gasoline  
Wipe away those tears of blood again  
And the punchline to the joke is asking  
Someone save us  
You don't know a thing about my sins  
How the misery begins  
You don't know  
So I'm burning, I'm burning_

**A/N: Sorry this took awhile to get put up and I know it's not the best chapter so far, but I just haven't had much time to write. Things have been busy, as usual, and though I'm trying to get the end of this out around the same time as the actual finale, looks like I'm not gonna be finished in time for that. And now I hate myself, because I read the spoilers and saw the pictures for the season finale and am now in a state of shock. Seriously, I think Inearly had a heart attack. (All of you who have seen them, too, will know what I'm talking about.)**

**Up Next: How do I put this? Um...well, let me put it plain and simple. The two sides of Sam actually have it out, and I mean literally, they fight each other. That sounds really weird right now, but it will make sense. It's a sort of dream sequence, you could say, only really, really warped. **

**Review, please!**


	67. Together

**Chapter 67: Together**

_This feels like another dream  
Trapped underneath my own routines  
I tried to lift it off of me  
I give up, I give up  
I just sit and bleed _

_-Paralyzed by Rock Kills Kid

* * *

_

_"Do you want to see something cool, Sammy?" _

Those had been the last words he'd heard before losing consciousness. When he did, like all the other times, the blood was gone from his skin, and his clothes were clean. The wounds that had been inflicted had all healed so that he wouldn't bleed to death, but the pain still remained. The healing process was about as good as putting one giant, invisible band-aid on the injuries. They still hurt just as bad.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in the same room anymore. The demon was gone, but the cold, piercing aura of his remained. Sam could feel his presence in his mind; it still had its claws sunk deep into his soul, and didn't plan on releasing his hold anymore. Never again, he had promised. Every place the demon had so much as brushed with his fingers burned like the tips of them had been coated in acid. The burning in Sam's chest refused to abate. The lids of his eyes felt like lead as they cracked open, but the rest of his body moved better. He lifted his head, searching for another person in the room.

It wasn't what he'd expected. This was different, a suburban house's guest room, by the looks of it. It seemed familiar, even, though he was sure he'd never been in it before. To his surprise, the door was cracked open, and moonlight was filtering in from the hallway.

The pain in Sam's body left as soon as it had come, though the after effects the quick healing of all of his cuts and bruises remained, and pushed himself up. Shock registered in his mind as his feet hit the ground. They made no sound as he padded along the wood floor, nor did he feel the cold on the soles of his feet, which he realized were bare, just like he hadn't felt the covers of the bed beneath him as they brushed his skin. When he reached out his hand to push open the door, it opened just as his fingers barely brushed the wood, blown open gently as if a breeze had been the source of the commotion.

_"Do you want to see something cool, Sammy?" _

Sam didn't know what to expect at this point from the demon. Sure, they had done some weird shit to him, but what the hell was this? This had to be a first for them. All of the nightmares, hallucinations they had inflicted, and drugs they had given him were worse than this. This sure as hell didn't feel like a bad acid trip. It felt...like nothing. He just felt numb, wary, but unable to feel anything, pain or otherwise. He couldn't feel his heart beating or the insane murmur in the back of his head from his other side. Sam wasn't sure he minded it, even.

The hallway was empty, though he was suddenly aware of other presences in the house. A television was on downstairs, the faint sounds of some army show coming from the speakers as well as the light sound of snoring from the occupant. Sam began to back up, unsure of why or how he was there, but definite in the mindset he wasn't an invited guest.

_This feels like another dream  
Everyone grabbed a hold of me  
Pulled from every side of me  
I give up, I give up  
There's nothing left of me _

_"Look familiar?"_ a voice said from behind him, and he jumped, pivoting in place to see who had spoken. He opened his mouth, preparing to attempt an explanation, but there was no one there.

"Hello?" he said, but no response. "Hello?" he called loudly, possibly not the best idea in the world, but still no response. The snoring continued as it had before.

Suspicious, Sam continued down the hallway to where he heard sounds. The first door he saw was opened so light could come in for the occupant from the main room. Sam stepped through.

A blond head peeked out of the Superman covers, the pajama-clad arm hanging over the side with matching attire. The child, who couldn't have been older than five, tossed in his bed restlessly, but was sound asleep. There was something familiar about him, too, just like the house, but once more the similarity was lost to the youngest Winchester.

Then he heard the crying from the nursery next door, and the little blond-haired kid opened his eyes, obviously annoyed at the sound. He looked right through Sam as if he wasn't there, and fell back asleep as the crying subsided within ten seconds, but it was enough for Sam to have seen his eyes. The eyes he recognized, if only from old, half forgotten pictures. He had seen those eyes too many times.

They were Dean's eyes.

Reeling, Sam rushed into the hallway, his mind churning. The demon had never done this to him, made him see this. He had nothing the demon could have drawn on to trap him in this night. He didn't have the memory of it, any of it.

"I did." Once more, Sam spun around, but nobody was there. It was the same voice from before.

"What is going on?" he asked, his voice raising an octave.

"What do you think, Sam?" the voice questioned. "We put you here, to settle a few things out. You see, I think you and I need to have a little heart to heart. I heard once that if you put people in more comforting, familiar situations, the less likely they are to totally ignore you. Not that I believe it, but I'm willing to give it a shot."

"Who are you?" Sam pushed open the next door, the one to the nursery. Wind chimes tinkled in the corner, and the branches outside rubbed against the window with the scraping sound of nails on a chalkboard. A figure stood over the crib, and Sam recognized him immediately. Though Sam couldn't see his eyes, he knew they would be bright yellow.

But he wasn't the one speaking. The voice continued from behind him. "Isn't it obvious? You're not going back in time, you're not hallucinating, and this isn't a different dimension. You don't have the memories of this night, but I do." There was a pause, and Sam turned around. This time, he saw exactly who was speaking. "You're inside your own head, Sam." The figure smiled, the grin all too familiar. "I'm you. Long time, no see."

Sam froze, as he realized he was staring into black eyes. His eyes. The other Sam wore all black, with a brown leather jacket Dean would be proud of. He leaned against the doorframe casually, smiling.

"Don't act so surprised," the other Sam continued in a friendly drawl. It was pretty safe to say this was the weirdest thing Sam had ever experienced, and that was counting the thing they had hunted that had taken his shape, the form of his greatest fear. For this actually was him. He could feel it. There was a link between them, practically tangible, physical, even. Sam knew every word that was about to be spoken before it was, and it worked the other way, too. "You knew it was only a matter of time before you had to talk to me for once, face to face, before you had to actually look at me, admit I existed."

"You don't exist," Sam denied, backing up. "This isn't real. This is all a hallucination."

"And if it is?" the other Sam queried, his jet black hair longer than Sam's, the bangs falling forward and practically blocking his eyes. "I'm not denying it, by any means, since I'm pretty sure there's no other way I could be here. Unless you're on acid or something, and in that case, I have to ask you not to fuck up our body any more than you already have. I have enough of your issues to deal with as it is." His grin widened, a sparkle in his eyes as if it was an inside joke. Sam felt no reason to share the humor. "I have to say, though, if you are on something, thanks. I haven't felt this awesome since..." He pretended to think for a second, and then said, in a sardonic tone. "Well, since I actually had control over my own mind. Who would have guessed?"

"It's not your mind to take control over."

"Now, Sammy," the other Sam said, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. "Don't you think that's a little cold? I mean, I have as much of a claim to my own body as _you_ do." He tilted his head mockingly. "I've been here just as long as you." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Well, minus the first six months, but like that even counts anyway." He rolled his eyes. "It's all pooping, peeing, sleeping, and eating. I was basically a baby, too. I grew up with you, Sam. I've followed you through your whole life, experienced it all. I went through _puberty_ with you, and believe me, it was _not _a pretty picture. So as far as I'm concerned, you seriously owe me, Sam."

"I don't owe you _anything_," Sam threw back. "You don't have any control anymore."

The other Sam snorted in derision. "This coming from _you_." His next comment was mocking. "Poor little Sammy, always has to have his big brother swoop in and save the day with his...hugs and inspirational speeches." He spoke the words with disgust. For a brief second, the other Sam mimed throwing up.

"And you wonder why I don't listen to you."

"Oh, you will," the other Sam said simply, lightly. "Sooner or later, you will, whether it's the easy way or the hard way. And, hey, I'm on your side." He grinned, a hint of sympathy flashing across his face, as minute as it was. "But my allegiance is to them, and I am who I am. We both know you're going to lose out either way."

"Not this time."

"You always were a drama queen." The other Sam looked up at him through his jet black bangs. "But really, come on. Last time, how long did you hold up? Four days? We're only on day two, Sam, and we're hitting our breaking point. They're killing you, Sam, and I don't know if they realize it, but they're killing me, too. You think we're so much stronger than we were before, but you're wrong. They're stronger, we're weaker. They're _going_ to win. If we fight them any longer, we're going to die."

"You use the term 'we' one more time..."

"Why shouldn't I? It makes sense, doesn't it? You and me, we're the same person. You were the one that separated us. The other kids, they were fine. You fought who you were and tried to get rid of me, and I understand why. But I'm a _part_ of you now. And a very important part."

The other Sam stepped forward. As he did, the connection strengthened, and he furrowed his brow as the feeling of not being alone in his mind returned. The next sentences echoed in his mind, like he had thought them himself. Like he was the one speaking them. His lips parted as well when his double began to speak, and he closed his eyes and looked away. He couldn't tell where his mind ended and where the other's began, a new sensation to him.

"We were never meant to be two separate entities, fighting for control," he continued. "We were supposed to be one whole. We still are, though I know you want to deny it. But I need you, and you need me. Haven't you felt this? Haven't you felt like something's missing?" Sam shook his head, but his other side dug deeper into his mind, forcing the memory out. "That's not my voice you hear in your head every night, telling you things about yourself you never wanted to believe." The words were barely a whisper, but Sam understood them, all the same. "It's your voice; _our _voice you hear, every single time. Don't you see? There's no difference. We're the same. It's just the way you look at it."

"Leave me alone," Sam said, backing away. He was getting out of there, no matter what happened. It didn't matter if it was a dream; he couldn't take it anymore. Just as he turned, a hand gripped his arm in an iron vice, ice cold yet burning his skin as it made contact. Just as the demon's touch had done, the icy tendrils reached their way through his veins painfully, and he cried out. All thought was halted, and only the pain existed. Nails were being driven into his brain at that very moment, and he knew at any second the death creeping through his system would reach his heart. The other Sam sensed it and let go.

As Sam fell, he tasted blood in his mouth and felt it on his chest. The wounds that had been healed earlier felt like they had been ripped open anew, and he curled over, his hands on the wounds in a vain attempt to stop the blood flow.

"You don't get it, do you?" the other Sam snapped desperately, any trace of friendliness gone. His eyes were wild, and his tone was rushed. There were so many thoughts in Sam's head, too many. He wasn't supposed to hear two sets of thoughts, and the pain which resulted nearly crippled him. "I'm trying to save your life._ Our_ life. They'll kill us both, don't you see? Can't you feel it, Sam? Every time you see him, every time he forces his way in, can't you feel the death? You won't last like the times before. You're weakening everyn time. We can't make it through like last time. If we don't do something, we're going to die here, alone. He'll watch us bleed to death. And if this doesn't work, if we don't cooperate, they'll kill him, too. They'll kill Dean. Torture him to death, and they'll make you watch. Then they'll go after dad, and Missouri, and Sarah, and all the people you've helped, just out of anger. But once they're done, they'll kill us, too, without hesitation. We're important, but not _that _important."

"You'll do it anyway," Sam spat. "You'll kill Dean. You hate him. You hate all those people, and don't lie to me. The first thing you do will be to march into Dean's room and rip him to shreds. You'll torture him to death yourself if they don't get to him first."

"We will," the other Sam corrected, his face cold. "Together we can do anything. We don't have to die like this." His voice was breathless with excitement, like a fourteen year old ready to go to his first concert. "I can't die like this, Sam. I have some say in our fate, don't I? I stood by you your whole life, trapped, and all I get to do and sit by as _you_ let me die? Can you _blame_ how I turned out? You owe me some say. You are not going to take both of us down."

Sam didn't answer, and earned nothing back but a deep breath. "Yes, I'll kill them," the other Sam continued. "We _have_ to, Sam. We don't have a choice. It's who we are."

"No. It's what _you_ are."

"This is the way to make things right. The _only _way. Sam, they hid who you were. Your father erased your memory, for god's sake! Those people--Dean, Dad, Missouri, Sarah, everyone--_they're_ supposed to die, not us. We're the ones that were always supposed to go on. Those people are sacrifices that need to be made."

"Maybe those 'people' deserve to go on more than us."

The other Sam let out a guttural snarl, emanating form the back of his throat. For a second, Sam thought he was about to throw a punch, but he didn't. Instead, he said loudly, while rolling his eyes, "Oh, give me a break! Stop with the noble shit. These days, all I _get _from you is the self-sacrificing, warm, fuzzy crap, and it's starting to seep into _my_ brain. Don't lie to yourself, Sam, and don't deny it. Don't tell me you're a good person at heart, though and through, because nobody in this world is a saint anymore, least of all you. Everybody has to watch out for their own back. There are no sacrifices for loved ones, no heroes. They're dead."

"Shut up," Sam snarled.

"What? Am I hurting your feelings?" He laughed sharply. "You need me. You always have."

"I won't let you hurt more people. I won't let you hurt Dean."

The other Sam let out a long string of expletives Sam was sure he himself had never heard. Maybe being stuck inside your own head for twenty four years left time to think about those sorts of things. "They are going to die whether we do it or not!" he shouted angrily. "You can't save them, Sam. I can't save them. Don't you think I would like to be able to? But. I. Can't. Save. Him. Dean is going to die, no matter what you do. You've seen what happens in the end. We have to choose a course. It's him, us, or both. You don't have to do it yourself. You don't even have to watch. Just let me. If he's going to die, why not get some gain from it? Isn't it a small price to pay for eternal life? Hell, for just plain normal life."

Sam didn't answer. The blood leaked from between his fingers, and he gritted his teeth through the pain. The other Sam seemed to consider that a sign that he should go on.

Crouching down, the other Sam muttered, "There's a war coming, and we're right in the middle of it. I've seen things that are coming. I've seen everything, and it's everything you could imagine it to be." He smiled brightly. "No fear. No pain. We're the front line. We can end this war before it even begins, squash out anyone who stands in our way. We can do anything."

"I don't want that."

"Yes," the other Sam said quietly, looking into Sam's eyes. "You do. I know you better than anyone, every thought you've ever had. I know every hope, desire, fear. I know the greed, the suffering, the pain, and I feel them as you do. I know what you want. And deep down, very deep down, you know I'm right. You knew this was inevitable, that no matter how hard you fought, it was always a choice. And when you had that choice, you've always known what you had to choose."

**A/N: Hi, guys! Sorry I haven't updated lately, I really am sorry. Things are still crazy, and I won't have much time to write this week, I don't think. It's send off week at my school, and there's a shit load of stuff going on. Lately I wanted to have this done by the season finale (You'll get why later.) and I'm going to get close, but I have about four/five chapters left. **

**One more thing. Check the date at the top. I know if I wanted to update at the right time, I should have posted yesterday, but I wasn't at home all day. Anyway...yesterday, I have officially been writing this story for an entire year. How many authors on here can seriously say that about a single story that they haven't abandoned once? (Honestly, I don't know how many, and really there could be quite a few. I guess...whatever, it's a figure of speech.)**

**Up Next: Let me tell you this: In the next two chapters, you will get full-blown evil Sam. Not just dream/hallucination evil Sam. Total, evil, nasty, mean, cold-hearted Sam. :) Not next chapter, though. Next chapter, it's all about Sam and Dean, and not to make it sound corny or anything, but it's all sort of a goodbye.**

**BTW: Those in the US, have u seen the promo for the season finale? That part at the end was the part I was talking about last update. All I can say is:'(**


	68. Good To Be Back

**Chapter 68: Good To Be Back**

_How long I'll wait  
Just to say goodbye  
Ten different ways to enjoy this night  
You could never let me in  
Holding on until the end  
The time I waste just to say goodbye  
Out of your way  
I could do this right  
Can't see you anymore  
Won't feel you anymore _

_-Back to California by Sugarcult_

"What happened?" Dean asked tentatively to the unresponsive Sam. Ever since he had returned, there was something significantly different about him. Not that he hadn't been out of it before, but this was too much. No matter what Dean had said or done, Sam refused to move from his position on the bed, which Dean had given up for him. He now sat next to his brother in an identical fashion, his knees pulled up to his chest with his elbows resting lazily on top. The entire thing made Dean feel like they were both kids again.

"I don't know," Sam answered in the same tense, hoarse voice. When he had walked through the door, it was impossible to ignore the blood staining his shirt, or his red rimmed eyes, or the hoarse, raspy voice that meant only one thing, and it infuriated him more than anything in the world to think about what the demon had been doing to his little brother. To Sammy. What had he ever done to deserve this? "It was like some crazy acid-trip. I don't remember."

Dean knew immediately that he was lying, but didn't push the matter further. He once again studied Sam's torso, where most of the blood seemed to originate from, but there was still no sign of injury, though Sam flinched in pain whenever he moved.

"What did they do to you?' Dean asked in the most supportive voices he could muster. Sam snorted, laughing without humor. His eyes glimmered distantly, his face resigned.

"You don't want to know that, Dean," he answered in barely more than a whisper. His lips didn't even look like they had moved when he spoke.

"I know I don't," Dean answered. "But I'm your brother."

"And what difference does that make?" Sam questioned with little interest.

"I need to know, Sam."

"Where do you want me to start? The drugs, the torture, or the mind-probing?" The words caused a physical reaction inside Dean. Pain. They had hurt his baby brother. They had made him bleed, made him scream. They were killing him, and for that, Dean swore he would make them pay. Every single person that had ever laid a hand on Sam. "I thought not," Sam said when Dean remained silent.

"Something's wrong, isn't it? You've seen something." He knew that look in Sam's eyes. He only got that look when he was hiding something. Of course, there was a lot he was hiding at that point, but Dean knew his brother. "Did he tell you something? Did you have a vision?"

"I thought I could change it," Sam said abruptly, quietly. His eyes were glazed, whether from tears or a potential fever Dean couldn't tell. "I always thought I could change it, that I could make a difference. That I could save us." He turned and met Dean's eyes for the first time in their entire conversation. "We can't be saved, can we, Dean? I can't change it."

"Change what?" Sam shook his head in despair. "Sam, change what?"

"Everything," Sam answered in a strained voice, his face contorted in some unknown emotion Dean couldn't decipher. "I couldn't change this. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop getting taken, and I couldn't keep you safe, either. There's no telling where dad is, or if he's even alive--"

"He's alive, Sam. Don't even say that."

"I can't stop any of it, Dean. I can't."

"Sam, what are you talking about?"

Sam paused for a second; either thinking about what he was going to say or preparing to say it. "I've seen it," he said, forcing himself to be calm. "I've seen what happens to you, to me. I've seen the world we live in. I've seen the death and destruction, the children taken from their mothers, screaming, crying because of things I did to them. I saw everyone dead, all the people I killed. I hunted them all down, Dean. Every single person we've ever saved, I killed them all, and you could never stop me. I can't stop it from happening. I can't stop any of it."

"Of course you can. You can fight this."

"What if I can't?' Sam asked. "What then? What are you going to do? Sit there and try to talk me out of it?"

"What are you trying to say? That I should just kill you now?"

"I'm trying to ask you if you'll be ready to let me go. If you'll be ready, when the time is right."

"Don't even say that."

"Everything that's happened, Dean, it makes you wonder." His voice was so much smaller than usual, so much more fragile. He seemed so...breakable. Like he would shatter with the least little thing. "It's enough to make you wonder why you even bothered to fight in the first place."

Silence. Sam looked like he was preparing for a physical blow, and Dean pushed himself away from Sam, so he was standing by the bed. His legs suddenly felt weak as he looked at Sam's face and saw the look of pure resignation he had feared for months.

"You're letting it get to you. Come on, man, you can't let him do this--"

Sam shook his head numbly, making eye contact with Dean so he could press his point. " No," he said. "This isn't about him anymore. This isn't about what he's doing to me. This is about what I am, what my life is. And I've been thinking about this for a long time, about my decision." He swallowed heavily, tentatively. "About my choice."

"What choice?' Dean asked, feeling like the dumbest person in the world. Sam shook his head once more.

"All this time, Dean, my entire life I've fought this, telling myself the reason I lasted this long was because I was really a good person, and deep down, I knew that wouldn't change." He paused for a second, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. Dean didn't like where this was going. "Maybe I was just kidding myself, Dean. This has always been my decision to make. I was always meant to choose the side I would fight for."

"And...?" Dean queried suspiciously, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Maybe I've been choosing the wrong side," Sam whispered.

_You're gone  
I'm miles away  
Turning out your lights  
Ten different ways I could end this night  
Can't do this anymore  
Won't feel you anymore _

"How is our side the _wrong side_?" Dean asked, irritation bubbling up at Sam's change in stance, but confused more than anything. "You _hate_ these people."

"I'm not saying it's wrong for you. I'm saying wrong for me." He returned his gaze to Dean's face, an unspoken apology for his next words written in his eyes. Dean felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. "We were always two totally different people. It's only natural we would be on two different sides of this war."

"This isn't you," Dean denied, shaking his head vehemently. Sam was out of his mind if this was what he truly thought.

"It is," Sam said calmly, convincingly. There was no sign of his other half in his face. This was really Sam speaking to him, saying these things. "Think about it. If I fight this off by some miracle, if I get out of here with you, how long do you think I have?" Then his voice was stern. "When this war starts, just like we both know it's about to, I could turn on you all. It'd be a matter of months at most. We should save ourselves the betrayal part, and stop denying what's in front of us." His jaw was tensed, the classic look he always had when he was determined or had made up his mind. "Maybe it's better this way."

"Trust me," Dean said desperately, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder, where he flinched. "Nothing is _ever_ going to be better this way."

"I'm not a good person, Dean," Sam continued. "Everyone has their purpose, and not everyone can be the hero of the story. Someone has to be the bad guy." His eyes were distant, cloudy, but he didn't look afraid. "Maybe my story isn't supposed to have a happy ending. And I know you've always tried to protect me, and I respect you for that. But this is my choice."

"Look, Sammy," Dean said urgently, his voice quick and concerned. "I know you're scared." Sam shook his head, looking exasperated, which only made Dean angrier. "I _know_ you are. And I know you're fucked up. But we're all fucked up. That's not an excuse, not anymore." Sam looked like he was tuning Dean out, thinking he was just in denial, and Dean's grip tightened on his shoulder. "No. Listen to me." He shook Sam lightly, and his younger brother finally looked at him. "You _do_ have to make a choice. I made mine. I decided to stand by you, no matter what. I knew the risk, but I did it anyway. Now it's your turn. It's me or them. You can't have both. You can't_ be_ both anymore. You can stick with me and be Sam, or you can choose them and give up everything you've ever stood for. It's time to choose."

"Dean," Sam said quietly, tentative, and when his eyes met Dean's, they told him exactly what Sam was about to say. "I've made my choice."

Dean felt like all the energy had left him, like everything was slipping out of his grasp truly for the first time in awhile. "And it's not me, is it?" Sam didn't say anything; he didn't have to. "I see..."

"This isn't about you..."

"Don't, Sam," Dean spat. "Don't give me this fucking 'It's not you, it's me' shit. Don't you _dare_."

"It isn't. Dean--"

"Yes, it is!" Dean spat, the anger flaring back up in place of the shock. "This is just as much about me as it is about you! Everything is always about you, isn't it? No, this is my life, too. You are my _brother. _Have you ever thought for _one second _how this is going to affect me? This is my life, too!"

"This is my life, Dean!" Sam said, his voice rising in response to Dean's. Dean felt like his heart was beating a million miles a second. This was the first time he had ever truly thought he was going to lose Sam, and it was terrifying.

"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled, desperation transforming into fury. Sam looked like he had known this was coming, and, like before, looked to be preparing for physical blows. But no matter what he told himself, Dean knew if he didn't change Sam's mind then, he wouldn't be able to. "After all this, after all we've been through, how dare you give up on me? I have stood by you through this whole thing, and_ this_ is what I get? You're not the person I thought you were. You're not Sam."

Sam redirected his gaze do he didn't have to look Dean in the eye. Dean leaned down, sitting on the bed so Sam had to look at him. "It's worse than death," he said, lowering his voice in the hope that he could get through to Sam. "You said it yourself. And I swore to you that I would protect you. I can't let you die like this, Sammy. I can't lose you again."

"You already lost me," Sam hissed with surprising anger. "I died a long time ago, Dean, and I'm tired. I'm sick of fighting, of trying to be me, of trying to find out what I am. I just want people to let me be." He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. "Nobody ever lets me be," he mused. "Everybody is telling me what I am. I'm your brother, I'm a demon, I'm some sort of warrior, some sort of...hero. I don't know any of that. I don't know how to be any of it anymore. I mean, who's to say what I am until I take the plunge and find out, until I just let go and see which side wins?"

"No, Sam," Dean urged, but he had the feeling he wouldn't get through. "No."

"I'm tired of feeling...dead in between the good moments. I don't want to, but I always have. Ever since I learned the truth. You lost me then, Dean, not now. I stayed with you because I needed you and you needed me. But we've been trying to make this life work for too long. You are holding on to something that isn't there anymore and it's killing you. You have to let me go. Join the resistance, the other hunters, move on--"

"I can't move on, Sam!" Dean practically yelled. "If you leave, if you join them, it's over for both of us! I go down with you."

"No you don't," Sam said. "I will not bring you down with me."

"Then don't do this."

"Grow up," Sam said in a cold voice. "You want to live, don't you?"

"I think that's a pretty natural assumption," Dean muttered. "But Sam...I will follow you anywhere, to hell and back if I have to. But I will not follow you here. I can't. If you do this, you're going to lose me. You'll lose everything, renounce me, disown me, and everyone else you care about. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?"

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Sam insisted.

"Tell me the truth, Sam," Dean said angrily. "For once, tell me the truth. Look me in the eyes for once and tell me what you saw. I can handle it; I know I'm not getting out of here alive. And I know you're going to be the one to do it. But are you really willing to look me in the eyes and tell me right now that you don't care about me or anything else?"

"Dean..." Sam's mouth was opening and closing as he started to speak multiple times as he attempted in vain to do the very thing Dean knew he would never be able to do. Sam was struggling to save Dean by saying the words Dean had spoken for no reason other than he was angry. But he felt his stomach sink as he looked into Sam's eyes, knowing his brother wished with the entire world he could say it. And it was that, more than anything, which made Dean realize the truth.

Sam had made his choice. There was no changing that. In only a matter of months, the dark had claimed Dean's baby brother and ripped him away. Sam was gone, and he wasn't coming back. His mind was made up, and he was only asking Dean to let him go.

So, in the end, it was Dean who didn't know what to say. Not when Sam stood, gently pushing Dean's hand from his shoulder. His vocal cords couldn't seem to form the words. All he could manage to choke out was Sam's name once, but even then, there was no response. There was too much silence, but the weight of what was happening hung over them heavily. Nothing needed to be said; it would only make it hurt worse.

And when Sam was gone, pushing the door open, walking in synch with the demons who had come for him for the first time, Dean could still fell him, could still sense his presence as if he was standing right there next to his brother. And five minutes later, he saw Sam when he closed his eyes. His brother, his Sammy, stood before the demon, silent, his face grave.

"You always were one of the quiet ones," the demon commented, and Sam didn't flinch.

Dean felt it when the demon put his hand on Sam's forehead, ripping through the defenses as if they were tissue paper, tearing through Sam's mind like a bulldozer and destroying what he had been. He felt the Sam he knew die; his own soul contorted and melted together with what the demon wanted, until there was no Sam anymore.

And he saw the eyes as they opened, Sam's cold, black eyes, no longer touched with brown or sparking with emotion. In that instant, Dean saw the truth.

Sammy was gone.

"Good to be back."

_Leave it all the fights and all  
Summer's getting colder  
We waited and I guess we're getting older  
We couldn't win in the end  
We waited and I guess we're getting older  
We couldn't win in the end  
You're gone_

**A/N: First off, in this virtual season, this part would be the end of the first part of the two part finale. Speaking of which, O. M. G! I started crying while watching this week's episode, seriously. It was so freaking sad.**

**So...PLEASE REVIEW! Come on, guys, really. It means so much to me. The more reviews I get, the faster next chapter comes out, and you know what that means? Evil Sam!!! I personally love him and I know there are a good number of you who do, too. How can you not? OK, some of you may not be very happy with him next chapter, because there's a lot of crap going down, but he's still really hot. So I'm asking you guys this question, and answer in your reviews if you get the time: What do you think is going to happen? What _should _happen? Little (coughcoughobviouscoughcough) hint: There's BIG fight going down between two certain people (take a wild guess who) and there's a very good chance one or both of them is going to kick the crap out of the other. Who do you think is gonna win?**


	69. Poor Dean

**Chapter 69: Poor Dean**

_I've seen angels fall from blinding heights  
But you yourself are nothing so divine  
Just next in line  
Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you  
The odds will betray you  
And I will replace you  
You can't deny the prize it may never fulfill you  
It longs to kill you  
Are you willing to die?  
The coldest blood runs through my veins  
You know my name_

_-You Know My Name by Chris Cornell_

It wasn't that long at all before Sam came back. Dean knew what to expect, knew he would be the first person on Sam's checklist. He didn't even look up when he heard the lock click open on the door, or when a figure stepped into the room, his stride confident. He didn't slam the door angrily like Dean would have expected, instead shutting it quietly, carefully. It locked behind him.

"Dean." There it was. One word. Barely a greeting, but enough. Dean didn't flinch or move from where he sat, turned away from the door. He didn't want to see the face that went with the voice, which had once seemed so familiar, so warm, kind, but now put even more space between Dean and his brother.

No. This wasn't Sam. No matter what happened to him, what Sam did to him, he had to remember that. Sam wouldn't do this, but that didn't stop his hands from shaking minutely. He clenched his fists against the wood to hide it, knowing he had no chance if Sam saw any sign of fear.

A scraping sound was heard as a chair was drawn across the room, closer to Dean, and in his peripheral vision Dean caught the first glimpse of Sam. He wore the same clothes as before, the same neutral expression, but his hair was jet black, matching his eyes. Dean turned his head in reflex, but the second he moved, a hand shot out and grabbed his upper arm. He yanked away, pulling himself off the chair and backing away.

Now Sam was smiling. He didn't speak for awhile, and neither did Dean. Sam just stared at him, his eyes surveying Dean with a calm stare, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, if you're going to be like that..." He shook his head, disappointment in his eyes at the lack of reaction from his older brother. "I had a feeling, though." He sighed, standing.

"How'd you get him to do it?" Dean snarled, the anger flowing through him as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped. "What did you tell him?"

"You know," Sam said, stepping closer. His eyes sparked with satisfaction as he leaned against the bed post lazily. He looked as relaxed as if they were two old friends sitting at a bar somewhere. "It's incredible how much a little pity and a_ lot _of bullshit can do for you." He chuckled before turning to look at Dean. "Oh, come on; don't look at me like that. _I_ was the one who had to hold down the vomit watching that little sob fest ten minutes ago. And you two are _always_ like that, constantly, all 'I'll be there for you,' 'Everything is going to be okay.'" He took a deep breath, rolling his eyes. "Thank god that's over, right?" He didn't seem to notice that Dean hadn't shared the humor.

"If you're going to kill me, do it now," Dean said, forcing his voice to stay even. Sam looked mildly impressed at that fact.

"Hey," Sam said mock-defensively, smiling wider. "Who said anything about killing?"

"You killed Sam," Dean said.

"Don't be such a _drama queen_, Dean," Sam threw back with exasperation with the air of someone who'd heard the same thing way too many times. "I haven't killed anyone. He's still up here." He lifted a finger to tap his temple. "He's just a lot less..." He thought for a second. "Annoying," he finally decided. "Do you know how much it takes to shut that kid up?"

"About as much as it takes for you to, I'm guessing," Dean spat.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Sam said, pretending to be hurt.

"It doesn't matter what I feel. You're going to kill me anyway."

Sam didn't speak. In fact, that comment seemed to be the first thing to wipe the smile off his face, for his true side to show. The coal black eyes bored into Dean's for a split second before he looked down, a knife in his hand. Dean saw the gun hooked in his belt loop tightly as he shifted. Sam twirled the weapon between his fingers as if it was something fascinating.

"Well..." he said, no regret showing on his face."We both knew that, didn't we? That's why I'm here."

"You don't have to," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes, frustration shining through.

"Stop acting like I'm still your kid brother, Dean," he said, his voice angrier than it had been their entire conversation. Instead of scaring Dean, it made him feel better. There was no disguise on anymore. "He's gone, and you know it."

"No, he's not," Dean said calmly. "That's what you said last time, and look how that turned out."

"I was lying last time," Sam threw back. "I'm through playing games with you, and I know you know that."

"How do I know you're not lying to me now?"

"Because it doesn't matter if I tell you the truth or not," Sam spat, temper rising as he pushed himself up into a standing position. "You're going to die either way. It's not like you're going to tell anyone." He smiled briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes like the others had. He had started pacing around, back and forth in front of Dean slowly, like a lion circling his prey. Dean's fists clenched at his sides as he prepared for Sam to lunge at him. "Pretty soon you're going to start up the Star Wars jokes again, aren't you?" Sam asked, eyes slightly narrowed.

"I was getting a few ready."

"Let me guess: Darth Sam, right?"

"Nice way to spoil it." Sam didn't even seem to register the comment. His eyes looked far away, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. Dean didn't think someone's eyes could glaze over that fast, and a few seconds later, when he looked up, his eyes were an even darker brown than before. "What are you...?"

Sam ignored him once more, eyes attentive again. He blinked a few times, and then continued, "It's not that bad." His eyes met Dean, and when they did Dean saw even less of what had been his brother there. Fewer sparks remained than before; Sam looked...dead. His skin had paled even more, but maybe that was because of the shadows that seemed to have become darker since he had entered the room. He was drawn up to his full height, taking every opportunity to point that out to Dean wordlessly as he knew it pissed him off. "I'm starting to think Anakin had it right after all."

"Well, if being thrown into a pit of molten lava is your idea of a good time, I guess so," Dean muttered loudly enough for Sam to hear. His brother's expression didn't change.

"And what are you, Dean?" he asked coolly, coming to a halt in his pacing to round on Dean fully, locking Dean in the full force of his coal black stare, daring him not to look away. "Han Solo?" He cocked his head to the side, choosing his words carefully as he took a step forward, watching for Dean's reaction. Dean didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, though his entire body was tensed, prepared just like John had taught him to when expecting an attack at any second. "You're here for comic relief and to get the girl." He straightened his head, creasing his forehead and looking at Dean like he was a disappointment. "They were going to kill him off anyway, and do you know why?"

This time, Dean did wince as Sam drew even closer, so their faces were only inches apart. He broke the eye contact, and Sam didn't care. He spoke his next words slowly; quiet enough so that Dean could barely hear him, but with a sharp edge to his voice that seemed to echo in his mind. "Because he's _not important enough_." Dean reflexively pushed him away, shoving as hard as he possibly could, satisfied when Sam stumbled slightly. He could have taken advantage of that, could have attacked him right then. He should have, but he didn't.

"What would the movie be without Darth Vader, Dean?" Sam hissed under his breath, gazing up at Dean dangerously through his bangs. "Think about it. Han...well, he ended up in love with Leia, and that's pretty much it." He drew himself up again, only slightly surprised that Dean hadn't taken the opportunity. The knife was still in his hand, tucked in the sleeve of his jacket temporarily. "And as..." He flinched as if it caused him physical pain to say the next words. "...cute as it was to watch you and Cassie swap spit, I don't think it'll exactly save you from being frozen in carbonite."

"Vader died in the end, too," Dean threw back lamely, and Sam rolled his eyes in annoyance that Dean had chosen such a weak argument.

"Well, there's always that," he admitted. "But who says we can't tweak the story a little? Add a few characters, take a few out? Who needs Luke anyway? He was just a whiny little twerp anyway."

"He had a better haircut than you, though," Dean muttered under his breath, but he knew full well Sam had heard what he said, and his eyes narrowed. That, of all things Dean had said, that one comment broke Sam's shell completely. For a second when Sam surveyed Dean, he was sure Sam was about to lunge at him, and got ready to fight back with what he had, though he had no idea what Sam's fighting capabilities were at this point. But Sam didn't lunge at him. He just stood there, and after a few seconds, to Dean's surprise, he laughed. The laugh wasn't like any of the other ones earlier on, the chuckles, since this one didn't have a trace of humor in it.

Fine. If Sam wouldn't make the first move, he would. Sam was too fast for him, though. As if he had been preparing for Dean to attack him at any moment, and when Dean sent out the first blow, he dodged easily, grabbing Dean's upper arm with inhuman strength and throwing him away and into the wall as hard as he could. He advanced, looking barely out of breath at all from the exertion.

"I was going to give you a few more minutes," he said, eyes suddenly looking the opposite of dead. "But this works, too." They were narrowed in a predatory fashion as he pulled out the knife, twirling it in between his fingers, and Dean lashed out at him.

Sam moved faster than he would have thought humanly possible as kicked Dean in the stomach, sending him against the wall once more. This time, Dean's head made contact with the wall, the thud resounding inside his very skull as if his brain had physically started rattling around. He felt something yank at his hair and force his head back again into the wall, his vision temporarily blacking out as he felt the blood start to trickle from his scalp.

Out of the corner or his eye, Dean saw a glimmer of something silver and ducked to the side just in time to miss the blade coming at him. He stumbled and fell, but kicked his leg out and brought Sam down with him in one sweeping motion, evening out the playing field. Dean pulled himself up to a crouching position, watched as Sam flung the knife out in his direction. He ducked, grabbed Sam's lower arm and finished the blow. He slammed Sam back down to the stone floor as hard as he could, hard enough to send the knife flying into the corner.

Sam struggled against his brother as Dean put his other hand forcefully on his chest in an effort to keep him down. He reached for the gun at Sam's belt, but the youngest Winchester was faster, and realized what he was doing in time to knee him in the stomach firmly, knocking the wind out of him.

"Nice try." Sam was on his feet before Dean could get his bearings. All he could manage to do was duck and roll as something smashed next to him, the vase from the end table most likely. He hit the bed and used it to pull himself up. His body was shaking and his head was spinning but adrenaline was doing its job for him. Sam lunged at him, but this time he was better prepared. His reflexes had sped up, and he felt like he would do better now that he had finally let go, warmed up. He was as good as he would ever be in this situation.

But Sam was better. He moved so fast it was unbelievable, and Dean had to use every bit of strength he had just to defend himself, much less get a blow in. This wasn't Sam as he'd known him; hell, this wasn't even Sam from when he had first turned all those months ago. This was worse. Twice as strong, twice as fast, and twice as ruthless. Dean had struggled to win last time, and even then he'd nearly gotten himself killed.

He let out a sharp breath of air as he hit the ground with amazing force after Sam flipped him. A hand was at his neck, pinning him down, the short fingernails cutting into the flesh.

"You'd think after all those years of training you'd put up a better fight than _that_," Sam said, still completely composed. "You're no better than dad."

"Don't you _dare_ talk about dad," Dean spat. Sam snorted, ignoring the threat.

"Both of you, I mean. It's pathetic. It's always about work. Work, work, work. It's always been about training, about saving all those people. It's your mask, Dean. You _hide _in your work."

"From what?"

"From facing everything." Sam easily parried Dean's punch and slammed him into the bedside table, grabbing hold of the front of Dean's shirt to pull him upright so he could speak to him eye-to-eye. "From seeing what you really are," he snarled, his eyes colder than ice. "Mom was gone, dad was gone, and I was as good as gone. It was all you had and it's gone now. You're hiding from seeing that you're alone. You always have been, and you always will be until the day you die."

"No," Dean said, trying to latch onto some hope that Sam was still in there, that there was something in there. "Sam..."

"You live a lie, Dean. You keep preaching not to shut the rest of the world out, not to be numb to everything, but it's how you thrive. You pretend to be critical and all the rest of this bullshit, but you're just looking for a way out. An excuse. Your entire _life_ is an excuse."

"Maybe it's because I know I'm the only one who's getting out of this."

"Poor Dean," Sam hissed in the most hostile tone Dean had ever heard him use. He held out his hand, shutting his eyes halfway as he continued to hold down Dean with inhuman strength. "You know, Dean, they say you never feel more alive than when you're about to die." It was then Dean noticed the knife in the corner beginning to levitate off the ground, wobbling slightly for a few seconds before evening out. Sam opened his palm, his eyes meeting Dean's. There was no sign of Sam Winchester ever being in there, and no sign that he was going to come back in time. "Let me know if that's true, okay?"

Sam let his guard down as the knife came flying at him, and that was all Dean needed. He leaped into a crouching position matching Sam's. He grasped the arm that Sam had thrown out to catch the knife and twisted it as hard as he could, kicking out into Sam's chest. Surprisingly, it worked, and the knife fell to the ground a foot away. He kicked Sam forcefully in the stomach to keep him on the ground, grabbed the knife and held it at Sam's neck while grabbing the gun from Sam's belt to hold it to his head.

"Three seconds flat," he gasped smugly. "And I didn't need any shit-head demon to teach me how to do it, either. Makes you rethink a few things, doesn't it?"

"What now?" Sam asked, out of breath. "You going to kill me or what?"

"No," Dean answered. "I'm getting out of here."

"Good luck with that," Sam said, smiling. "You'll last two minutes tops."

"I didn't say I was going alone," Dean threw back, pulling Sam to his feet while still pressing the gun to his head. He held on to the knife tightly, as he could feel Sam trying to pry it from his fingers telepathically. His powers weren't fully developed yet; they wouldn't be until at least twenty-four hours after the transformation ended. "I'm going to need a hostage."

The smirk on Sam's face dissolved immediately. "Oh, you've _got _to be shitting me."

_Stay out of the light  
Or the photograph that I gave you  
You can say a prayer if you need to  
Or just get in line and I'll grieve you  
Can I meet you, alone  
Another night and I'll see you  
Another night and I'll be you  
Some other way to continue  
To hide my face_

_-I Never Told You What I Do For A Living by My Chemical Romance_

**A/N: Hi, guys! Sorry this took so long to come out, things have been really...crazy. My heart just hasn't been in writing lately, and I have a few family issues I have to deal with at this point in time. I know these last chapters have been really, really transition-y (I'm seriously thinking of trademarking that phrase) but I had to put them in there to get to all the other stuff. I didn't like writing them AT ALL, but they had to be there, and I did the best I could with them. If you don't like the story at this point, remember nobody is making you read this. Please review:)**  
**Oh, and if you're confused what that last move Dean used was, AKA what he was referencing, go back to Chapter 51.**


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